A Beaten Path
A beaten path —
that’s what she is.
In her world, the roads don’t lead to Rome…
they lead to her.
That’s for sure.
Her dog running toward her while she jogs tells her so.
Her kids googling her in awkward moments tells her so.
His hands reaching for her without warning in the middle of the night tell her so.
Will that ever come to an end?
Will it?
And when it finally does,
will she miss being the beaten path?
When she finally lives by the sea —
where the cold waves lick her legs,
where she lets herself sink into the salty water —
will it feel good?
Or will it be just another warning of a different kind of assault —
a reminder to keep being a beaten path,
only in another way?
Will the end ever come?
There has been no warning.
No signs beforehand.
Not for her.
She has always been so busy walking,
making their path smoother, more pleasant.
She has always been so busy thinking about them.
She didn’t read the new wrinkles as signs of anything —
not as some quiet attack,
not as life growing too tired to keep walking beside her.
Her path was no longer a beaten one…
Will death ever bring an end?
Will solitude be her ending?
Or will she keep appearing on every other beaten path,
on every path they will ever take?
Will she turn herself into a sandy beach?
Sun and glory,
water and sadness.
Will the sound of silence ever feel less frightening
than that madness of loud voices?
Will there ever be peace?
Will she finally pay that bill?
Will she give them that enormous sum
that would take all that misery away —
away from her?
All those begging hands…
Away.
Will she ever fly away?
Will she?
She will no longer be
a beaten path.
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