The same road

Strangely, it seems as though this is the same road I have been walking down all my life. It has branched, and forked, and turned. It has developed deep bumpy ruts, it has flooded, it has been dirt-packed and weed-overgrown and it has been paved. Sometimes I have had to jump from paving stone to paving stone, sometimes I have padded forward smooth as you please.

I have skipped along barefoot, I have worn a colorful menagerie of shoes, I have tripped and fallen, tripped and caught myself, tripped and gone down hard, twisted more ankles than a person ought reasonably to be able to twist. I have walked light and heavy, hot and chilly, through deep sand, across sharp stones, alone reading a book, alone reading a phone, holding hands with my mother, my father, my sister, my Marjy and Linda best friends, with my lover, my runaway babies with my pinky in their little fists. I have walked with my posse, always and forever on down the road.

And do you know, as the road goes along, sometimes it seems so oddly unknown, though I’ve walked it for decades. And sometimes although I could swear I’d never been here before, my feet just keep on going, just simply, calmly walking home.

What a massive migration we are, walking together down this road. Laying down our little bundles here and there to rest for a bit, picking them up again, picking ourselves up again, getting ready to trundle along again with the sun.

Sometimes as I go I sing the little ditties that I learned a forgotten time ago.  Sometimes I shout them to the thunderclouds. Sometimes there are trumpets and chants, we cross bridges in lockstep and make them bounce with our marching rhythm. Sometimes I drift along by myself, not even sure I am on the road, or if there is a road, or that I’m going the right way. 

But there doesn’t seem to be any other way.