Closer To Home

I’d been procrastinating for weeks, watching the heavy blonde pass my window in the mornings when I didn’t go in early. It was usually around eight when she went by, always starting off heading north. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her coming back the other way; I suppose I’m usually gone by then.
It was time for me to make the run to the crossroads and the bridge that would take me over the highway if I chose to continue, or the other that would bring me to the tracks. I would start across the street from my studio, just in front of the church, rather than driving somewhere first as I usually do, tossing my house keys onto the front seat of my car and putting my driver’s license into my pocket just in case. I read a story once about a man who was hit by a car while jogging and was without identification, leaving his family to wonder for days what had happened to him.
The farm was first where I picked up an aroma that I couldn’t quite make out; it could have been the freshly tilled soil that was now furrowed and ready for planting, or maybe the blend of the hundreds of potted flowers that were left out on benches and tables that were for sale when the single string was removed from the entrance signaling that the stand was open for business. It would be a simple task to grab whatever one wanted during the night, but no one ever does.
I negotiated the first s curve where the lilacs that straddled the road and were so pungent just a few days ago were already faded and browning, their scent little more than a memory.
There is no real shoulder along most of this route, which is one of the reasons it has taken me so long to get started. I would have to rely on the kindness of the drivers passing by to steer away towards the center of the road so kept alert to the density of the nearby landscape in the event I had to dive into the shrubs to avoid a maniacal, neckless, anti-jogger in a diesel pick up. I was surprised how frequently cars passed each other in opposite directions at the precise moment they were passing me, almost as if I was a magnet that attracted this three way tryst.
I knew the first turn off was around a mile out and passed it soon enough with the bison ranch in mind for my midpoint, I had to at least get that far. I was fairly certain that I had clocked the second, larger intersection at two miles from home, but I really couldn’t remember. I was hoping the animals would be out grazing in the lower pasture by the road. I’d only passed them by at fifty or sixty so this would be a much more intimate exchange.

I felt the need to look down often as I moved between the asphalt and the somewhat softer packed gravel that was just wide enough at times to accommodate my strides, trying not to get caught on the edge, remembering the injury to my Achilles tendon while avoiding sticks on the trail through the woods.
The variety of trash that lined the drainage ditches was becoming a little unsettling; empty cigarette packs, beer cans, wrappers and bags with store names printed on them, a cover plate from a wall outlet. I don’t understand why people can’t wait until they get home to dispose of these things in their own household cans. I suppose it’s just laziness or a mild disdain for their own piece of the planet and their neighbors who then find it necessary to remove the debris from their lawns.
The ranch turned out to be a bit farther than I expected and there was no herd to be seen. I was only mildly disappointed, there will be other days. I’d been out for a while now and was uncertain of the distance to the second crossing but by the end of the ranch I could see the curve in the distance that I though might bring me close, the one near the church that was also utilized as a synagogue on Saturday mornings. I thought it was a nice gesture that they shared the little hall. I discovered when I neared that I was right; the triangular intersection was within reach, visible as I approached the parking lot. I have driven this route nearly every morning for the last seven months so should be somewhat knowledgeable of the various features and the distances between them.
Having reached my destination I headed for home, picking up the pace just a little, anxious now to be within that last mile where comfort returns.
The bridge over the stream offered the sounds of the nearby, low waterfall but as I crossed I saw a second, farther upstream that I had never noticed from my car. This was where, only briefly during the run, the traffic eased enough to allow the sounds of the birds and the gentle slap of my sneakers on the pavement to dominate.
I was nearly home when a semi pulled over right in front of me to let the line of cars behind pass, leaving no room between his trailer and the waist high grass, forcing me into the center of the road.
As I came to my studio I slowed to a walk and continued in order to cool down a bit, after sweating for a while now and finally removing the long sleeve jersey that I’d worn over my tee shirt thinking that it might have been appropriate attire when I’d begun.
I thought a walk through the cemetery might be just enough and as I moved along the side road I began to read the names and dates on the head stones, many going back to the mid eighteen hundreds while others were quite recent, even a few with only the dates of birth, waiting for those of their owners’ deaths to be engraved. I suppose it’s prudent to be prepared but I’m not certain I would want my name on one of those quite yet. It occurred to me as I walked that this was it, this is all there is, reduced to a skeleton and a stone marker, existing within a span of time that seems as brief and as fleeting as the fragrant blossoms of the lilacs, although, admittedly, the flowers have the opportunity for a repeat performance next year while we have only one chance.