One and one half miles. Hardly makes one an elite athlete, but a long enough walk to get the blood pumping, work out the kinks in the back from sitting all day. The route was the same every day, the familiarity beginning to breed contempt.
I came to the first intersection, where I always made a left turn, and stopped. Staring off to the right I felt a pull – a queer physical feeling, as if my heart were attached to a string that was being pulled in the opposite direction of the way I intended to go. I stood still – pondering, hoping, yearning. Wondering if it could possibly make a difference, if somehow turning the other direction could change my life, give it direction and meaning. Could it feed the hungry, house the homeless? Could it find homes for the stray cats, conquer my heartburn, make my cantankerous mother apologize?
God damn Frost – generations will stand at that divergence and wonder, certain that whichever path they choose will be the wrong one. His mother apparently never told him the adage about jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and I turned around.
Damn straight. Turn around and go the f*** home. Right on.
ReplyDeleteThere are so many paths not taken. But I think even in error, I've usually taken the right one. Some of my biggest wrong turns have taken me to better places than the right turn would have. (Or at least that what I tell myself.)
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