There is a lane.
It resides in his memory yet it is real and
twice he has walked it.
Though that is not entirely true.
The first time he walked it, the second
time he was driving and the only walking was his memory of the time before.
The young man came to it walking; he was 19 and
as the evening fell the lane stretched ahead of him towards a night unknown.
The fuscia that grows in the hedgerows caught the setting sun of the west, for
the lane leads that way.
Due.
Maybe it’s not a lane; perhaps it’s a road.
Does it matter?
It feels
like a lane.
The second time the father came in a car,
but the lane hadn’t changed, still it rose gently towards a future uncertain.
Neither time was he alone.
Though those alongside were not the same.
Just the lane, the fuscia, and the sun
setting over the still meadows of evening.
The old man will return one more time,
though he doesn’t know when.
It is inevitable; these things take place
in threes.
He will be alone.
And he will walk.
And if you are still there…
He will run.
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