Directives

Leaving work late each night, I am mostly alone on the streets of my town.
Until recently, I was absolutely phobic about driving - I could scarcely go down
my own driveway at high noon - so these nightly excursions never feel routine.
In fact, the darkness, the empty streets and my own solitude often coalesce into
something almost holy, lending unexpected weight to the idea of going home.
There are mileposts along my nightly route, rain or shine they remain fairly constant
and serve to reassure me I'm still heading the right way.
My favorites are the people.
Rounding the final corner of main street, there is the hood guy, rushing toward town with his face eternally obscured and his hands flailing gloveless in the coldest of weather.
Crossing near St. Vincent de Paul, the old dog-walker takes his time, leaning forward as if he drags a great weight instead of his little, matted mutt.
The shiny-vest people sometimes carry sticks, or slack white bages that flutter as they walk.
They appear near the empty lot, or the sign for the cemetary, and always walk single file with the woman in the lead.
Once I leave downtown proper, the written word appears. I pass the Mongolian Palace,

"Home of the Horseshoe Bar" and the thrift store where this week "Utinsiles are buy one,

get one free". The bowling alley has a big reader board, burning like a beacon at the

edge of town. The messages change frequently, and on foggy nights, appear abruptly
as if shoved before me by some spectral sage:
Get your game on.
Be Safe. Be Sane. Don't be a Statistic.
IT'S A NEW YEAR - HAVE A BALL!
Once I leave town the road opens up, pouring me into the waiting woods,
where I am embraced by the trees that guard my path. Scattered meadows
shine like pools when the moon is out, and on frosty nights,

flash their diamonds as I pass.
Few lamps are lit in the houses I see, all is quiet, and this quiets me.
I feel privileged in these moments, bouyed up by a beautiful,
mysterious joy I scarcely recognize.
The last business I pass going home each night is a small convenience store -
family owned for many years. There is a covered porch on the front of the store,
where old-timers have gathered for decades now, drinking coffee and telling tales.
Two summers ago, a long-time customer (who'd stopped taking his Clozapine)
pulled a gun from his car and shot the owner - killing him on his own front porch
in front of his family and friends.
The hand written messages that once told his story have long since been replaced
by posters for beer and 2% milk because business - like life - must go on.
But I remember the words that hung above that store for months after he was buried
and gone and, while I am not much given to prayer, they often serve as mine
as I turn toward my own destination:

Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you for everything.


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