We Walk

No one would be able to tell today, looking at this stretch of highway, but long ago this spot was the end. The flames still stretch across my sky in front of me, every time a come back to this place. Sirens still roar, drowning out the rush of the passing cars.

Sure the tall grass has grown back along the shoulder, the smoke has cleared from the sky, revealing its bright open blue hue, but still ghosts of the past skirt sides of the steaming roadway. Ghosts of that faithful day and others like it, before and after. Together we walk our paths, alone, but somehow united.

It had been three years. Three years since I’d left.

Started over.

Moved on.

Three years and three hundred miles since I’d left them behind.

In a small dark apartment in the suburbs of a large city whose name escapes me still I stayed. The walls, a golden rod color, where painted in one of my feeble attempts to brighten the dank, three room living space. A miniscule bedroom, an even smaller bathroom and a living room with a small kitchenette in the corner. Not a family room. Never a family room. I’d left them behind long ago.

Three years.

Life hadn’t been good, but I had gotten by. The shower faucet always seemed to drip its slow rhythm. Drip. Drip. Drip drip. A small trickle of water, from the apartment above, always slithered down the wall beside the fridge. Five of the electric sockets didn’t work. Five! But still I went on. Living.

Everyday a newspaper that I’d never ordered would show up on my doormat. Under it two or three envelopes. I’d wake every morning, shower in lukewarm water and down a weak cup of coffee before retrieving the morning deliveries. My thin fingers would flip through the envelopes. Electricity.Water.Rent.

Bills.

A longing sigh would enter the air as I set the mail on the small card table behind the old gray couch before leaving for work. I can’t say what I was looking for everyday. Only that I was looking. Searching for something.
Upon returning home late as usual, fatigued, I’d reach for the small button on the answering machine. Hesitating a moment, I’d jab the button, and listen. Silence would greet me. Except for Fridays. Two or three times a month there would be a message, from work of course. I need to work Saturday, he would say. His voice was always bored.

And I’d go. Work. That was what I knew. But I was free. On my own, but still free. Until that day. That faithful day.
It was a Sunday. That much I remember. I couldn’t tell you the time, or the weather but it was Sunday. Sunday was when I called.

Phone in hand, I sat in my car, everything that mattered crammed into the back seat. My hands. They shook so bad, I couldn’t press the small buttons to dial the number. Teary eyed, I threw the phone. With in a minute it had bounced into the cup holder, the screen stuck to spilled, dried pop at the bottom.

One last glance up at my home of three years, long years, and I slammed the rattling car door. Turning the key as loud rock filled the car. Screaming guitars, bashing drums and the dark undertones of the singer’s voice, strangely, seemed to calm my burning nerves.   

An hour passed with the only sound being that of the loud rambunctious stereo, blaring yet another hard metal song. Before long another hour was gone. Only half an hour out, I turned the knob on the dash and the music turned to a distant hum. Reaching for the phone in the cup holder, my hand on the wheel twitched nervously.
         
What if they didn’t what me back?

What if they were mad?

What if they didn’t answer?
         
What if…? No! I had to call. They at least deserved that.

With determination, I dialed. Those ten familiar numbers from my past, still engraved in my mind today. I dial them from time to time. For old times sake. But I always hang up. They don’t want to hear from me now.
         
I lifted the phone, holding it tight to my ear as it rang. Once, twice, before someone answered.
         
“Hello?” a woman’s voice, high and sweet.
         
“Amy,” I spoke, unable to say anything other than her name.
         
“Yes?” she questioned, her tone darkened in confusion. “Who is this?”
         
“Is Mom there?”
         
“Who is this? Claire? Is that you?”
         
“Give the phone to Mom,” I said, ignoring her hopeful questions.
         
“Claire, where are you?”
         
“That doesn’t matter, give the phone to Mom.”
         
“But…”
         
“Please Amy… Just…” a bright light and a blasting horn drew my attention away from the phone. I could hear her voice, calling to me, but I couldn’t answer. I reached for the wheel but it was to late. The large semi fishtailed, falling on its side from the force of the speed it had been going. Head on I drove into the large metal side of the truck.

Fire.

Smoke.

Sirens.

People. Who were they? I didn’t know.

I stood off to the side where I stand now, unnoticed. The men in red and the men in blue worked. The hoses. Trying to put out the climbing flames. Silently, a woman and a little girl came up beside me, then a man and some teenagers. We stood together, staring at the pile of burning metal. Silently I stared as families showed up, crying, trying run to the burning mass. Then men in red and blue held them back with worlds like I’m sorry and We’ve done all we can.

Slowly the people left. The flames lowered and soon went out completely. Then the men in red were gone, followed by the men in blue, when the men in yellow showed up, taking the destroyed pile of metal and rubber with the.

Slowly, the stretch of road turned back to normal, but still I walk with that woman and her child and the man and the teenagers. There are only two of them now. Bobby and Kirk. There had been about five, but the other two left. We don’t know to where. Just that they’re gone.

Together we walk. Silent. Watching the cars fly by on the boiling asphalt. From time to time another fire will burn and another silent figure or two will join us. But only for awhile. They always leave. But we stay. And walk. Small chunks of bumpers and metal are scattered among the new grass, remnants of the past.

For a time, people would come back to this stretch of highway, to cry. They’d bring flowers and pictures with them. Amy would come and some other people. A girl would come, at least once a month. Kirk would stand waiting for her for days before she’d finally show up. Then she’d go and he’d go back to walking, pacing.

We’re all pacing.