The Visit

The old man sat hunched over the table, going over and over the tattered map that had been folded and refolded more times than there were miles left to travel.  He tried again to click the lamp up another notch when in reality it was his  dim vision that was lacking additional adjustment.

He had made the long journey here but instead of visiting with me, inquiring how I was doing or asking what was going on in my life, he  sat the whole time silently studying  how to make his way back home.  When he did speak it was to ask if the 95 would be backed up at rush hour. 

"They're all backed up." I said.

The small red lines running across his straining eyes seemed a perfect reflection of the back roads and mountain passes looking back at him. 

I wanted to snap a photograph of his weathered hand lying across the eastern seaboard, complete with the frayed cuff of his flannel sleeve.  This was the image that would stick with me; it was the same hand that provided stability to my first bicycle, though it was now ever so slightly quivering as he worried about again driving in traffic.

I wanted to ask him why he came.  What was the point if only to sit at this table planning his return trip, but I didn't.

I snapped the picture.



ZC