52 km

by underswansea


All my scar tissue is melting away. Perhaps I’m becoming a kid again. Fingers that haven’t been hit with hammers. Knuckles that ain’t been busted by slippery wrenches. Ego, free of insult and regret, still intact. My teeth are even growing back. Been trying to be smarter but that’s not working. Pretty soon I’ll be forgiven. I’ll be drooling; eating shredded wheat, sprinkled with brown sugar, calling the food lady ‘mom’.

Whoa, whoa, not so fast! There is a few fish left to catch. I still get pissed at tourists, in such a goddamn hurry until they are in the Tim Horton’s line.

I can still pee standing up and sleep in the cold, but, I’ll admit it’s getting tougher

There isn’t a day I can’t make a difference. But it’s only  little differences now.

I still get annoyed, mad and angry.  Love takes longer (I’m not kidding). It doesn’t erase or make it better. It makes the road doable and feel good.

52 is a long way up. I could go back down, that would be the safe choice, but the road doesn’t have too many ruts, still slippery here and there sure, a few rocks, a few narrow passages, but I have four wheel drive, not to mention, a cheering section in the bed of the truck, wanting just like me to see what’s around the next bend.