Some day I will begin to walk, one step at a time. Some day I will go out the front door, close it carefully, walk down the steps, one by one, follow the sidewalk to the edge of the driveway, walk down the driveway to the street, turn right, and begin to walk down the street. Some day I will walk, a step at a time down the street past our neighbor's house with the barking dog and the tall pine trees, past the house with the new garage, down the street past the house built by a man single handedly over the past two or three years and then rented to college students with many cars.
I will just keep on walking at a steady pace, and continue up the street, occasionally glancing down at my black shoes' rhythmic motion as they go left, then right up our street, past the Taj Mahal, past the house with the cute little Scottie dog no one pays any attention to, past the former elementary school that is now an artist colony, and where kids are allowed to spray paint the walls with layer after layer of new designs. And I will keep going until I reach the edge of my familiar walking route, keep going beyond that, into the area where I rarely walk, but sometimes drive, keep on walking and walking throughout the day, past Lake Washington, past Kenmore, and yes, even past Bothell, on and on without stopping. And I won't ask myself how far will you go, I won't ask myself where will you go, I won't consider the blisters on my feet, and I won't even think about the soreness building in my calves and knees and thighs, spreading up through my torso, and consuming me with fatigue.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to make a stop at that espresso stand out in Woodinville for a quick pick me up, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to duck into that little tavern for to knock off a few stiff ones, maybe that would hit the spot, maybe that's what would put me right over the top. Hard to say, hard to say. So I'll just keep walking, walking down the street, in the berm, along the side of the highway where the weeds grow amongst the gravel and the paper cups with the colorful labels and the flashy logos selling hamburgers, coffee, and milk shakes. I'll just keep on walking along the road that goes out towards the mountains, out towards Monroe, and through Monroe on quiet streets with pretty old houses, little flower beds dormant, and mossy quagmires after the long fall rains. Maybe I'll just keep walking past the hardware store, and notice the prison on the hill, thinking about the incarcerated masses with time on their hands sitting on bare mattresses, staring at walls of concrete blocks and bars, freshly painted next to stainless steel toilets with no dangerous removable seats, no suicide aids allowed.
And maybe I'll just keep walking right out of Monroe and onto Highway 2 that goes over Stevens Pass, and heads east into the desert. U.S. highway 2 that winds up in Duluth, Minnesota, and all the while remembering the time me and Sharon drove all the way on Highway 2 from Duluth, Minnesota on the shore of Lake Superior through the lakes of Minnesota, through the barren flats of North Dakota, across the long long plains of eastern Montana, over the pass at Glacier, the Going to the Sun Road, and then cutting down next to Flathead Lake, and over through the panhandle of Idaho to Spokane, and continuing all the way across eastern Washington, across the Cascades, home.
I'll just keep walking in the opposite direction this time, this time walking, not driving, just keep walking by the side of the road with the cars, and vans, motorcycles, and semi trucks, and pickup trucks going past me in both directions, cutting through the air, and leaving giant holes in their wakes, me blown and buffeted by the splashing air, hands in my pockets, eyes squinting, step by step by step making progress, walking on ahead slowly gaining elevation, heading for the pass, heading first for Sultan, then Goldbar, and after that the road rises steadily, and you can see Wallace Falls off to the left, up the valley amongst the green second growth of fir, and on and on you just keep going, keep stepping, every car passing a sutra that rolls on behind it across the waves of air, as visible as the briny waves would be at sea, air fresh and salt tinged as if I were a sailing ship plowing through salty cold water on a crisp fall day, each truck blowing the clothes on my body, pressing my clothes against me, making me lean into the force of the blast for balance, buffeting me as I step ahead one step at a time along highway 2 just outside of Monroe, heading for the Pass.
One of the trucks might stop, air brakes expelling gas, spray from the damp road flying out to the side, wheels crunching the gravel along the side of the road. The drivers door would open, I’d hear a sharp whistle, "Hey buddy, need a lift?" the voice comes from the man standing on the ladder on the side of the massive cab, "you need a ride?" No, I'll say, more to myself than anything, I don't need a ride, no more rides for me, not now, I'm walking, step by step along the road. But he probably cannot hear me, since I am speaking in my normal voice, and the cars and trucks keep passing, and the wind keeps blowing and it is very hard to compete with that for sound.
So I just keep walking until I approach the back of the stopped truck and walk off to the side of it in the steep ditch with the wet grass, and keep walking on past the truck and its good Samaritan who stares and squints, and then shouts, "suit yourself." as his door slams, and his diesel roars while brakes squeal and squeak as he gets started again up the road towards the pass, near the sign that says the pass is open today, but there’s snow, freezing rain, and avalanche danger ahead. I'll just keep walking, step by step along the ragged asphalt edge, where it turns to gravel, and then to weeds and grass by the side Highway 2, the road that goes all the way to Duluth, Minnesota on the shores of Lake Superior.
I will just keep on walking at a steady pace, and continue up the street, occasionally glancing down at my black shoes' rhythmic motion as they go left, then right up our street, past the Taj Mahal, past the house with the cute little Scottie dog no one pays any attention to, past the former elementary school that is now an artist colony, and where kids are allowed to spray paint the walls with layer after layer of new designs. And I will keep going until I reach the edge of my familiar walking route, keep going beyond that, into the area where I rarely walk, but sometimes drive, keep on walking and walking throughout the day, past Lake Washington, past Kenmore, and yes, even past Bothell, on and on without stopping. And I won't ask myself how far will you go, I won't ask myself where will you go, I won't consider the blisters on my feet, and I won't even think about the soreness building in my calves and knees and thighs, spreading up through my torso, and consuming me with fatigue.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt to make a stop at that espresso stand out in Woodinville for a quick pick me up, maybe it wouldn’t hurt to duck into that little tavern for to knock off a few stiff ones, maybe that would hit the spot, maybe that's what would put me right over the top. Hard to say, hard to say. So I'll just keep walking, walking down the street, in the berm, along the side of the highway where the weeds grow amongst the gravel and the paper cups with the colorful labels and the flashy logos selling hamburgers, coffee, and milk shakes. I'll just keep on walking along the road that goes out towards the mountains, out towards Monroe, and through Monroe on quiet streets with pretty old houses, little flower beds dormant, and mossy quagmires after the long fall rains. Maybe I'll just keep walking past the hardware store, and notice the prison on the hill, thinking about the incarcerated masses with time on their hands sitting on bare mattresses, staring at walls of concrete blocks and bars, freshly painted next to stainless steel toilets with no dangerous removable seats, no suicide aids allowed.
And maybe I'll just keep walking right out of Monroe and onto Highway 2 that goes over Stevens Pass, and heads east into the desert. U.S. highway 2 that winds up in Duluth, Minnesota, and all the while remembering the time me and Sharon drove all the way on Highway 2 from Duluth, Minnesota on the shore of Lake Superior through the lakes of Minnesota, through the barren flats of North Dakota, across the long long plains of eastern Montana, over the pass at Glacier, the Going to the Sun Road, and then cutting down next to Flathead Lake, and over through the panhandle of Idaho to Spokane, and continuing all the way across eastern Washington, across the Cascades, home.
I'll just keep walking in the opposite direction this time, this time walking, not driving, just keep walking by the side of the road with the cars, and vans, motorcycles, and semi trucks, and pickup trucks going past me in both directions, cutting through the air, and leaving giant holes in their wakes, me blown and buffeted by the splashing air, hands in my pockets, eyes squinting, step by step by step making progress, walking on ahead slowly gaining elevation, heading for the pass, heading first for Sultan, then Goldbar, and after that the road rises steadily, and you can see Wallace Falls off to the left, up the valley amongst the green second growth of fir, and on and on you just keep going, keep stepping, every car passing a sutra that rolls on behind it across the waves of air, as visible as the briny waves would be at sea, air fresh and salt tinged as if I were a sailing ship plowing through salty cold water on a crisp fall day, each truck blowing the clothes on my body, pressing my clothes against me, making me lean into the force of the blast for balance, buffeting me as I step ahead one step at a time along highway 2 just outside of Monroe, heading for the Pass.
One of the trucks might stop, air brakes expelling gas, spray from the damp road flying out to the side, wheels crunching the gravel along the side of the road. The drivers door would open, I’d hear a sharp whistle, "Hey buddy, need a lift?" the voice comes from the man standing on the ladder on the side of the massive cab, "you need a ride?" No, I'll say, more to myself than anything, I don't need a ride, no more rides for me, not now, I'm walking, step by step along the road. But he probably cannot hear me, since I am speaking in my normal voice, and the cars and trucks keep passing, and the wind keeps blowing and it is very hard to compete with that for sound.
So I just keep walking until I approach the back of the stopped truck and walk off to the side of it in the steep ditch with the wet grass, and keep walking on past the truck and its good Samaritan who stares and squints, and then shouts, "suit yourself." as his door slams, and his diesel roars while brakes squeal and squeak as he gets started again up the road towards the pass, near the sign that says the pass is open today, but there’s snow, freezing rain, and avalanche danger ahead. I'll just keep walking, step by step along the ragged asphalt edge, where it turns to gravel, and then to weeds and grass by the side Highway 2, the road that goes all the way to Duluth, Minnesota on the shores of Lake Superior.