'I took the slow road home'

I took the slow road home. Why was it slow, you ask? I’m happy you asked because it doesn’t make much sense, does it? Why is one road slower than the other? Doesn’t it depend on the traveler of the road, not the road itself? What made this road particularly slow was that it was winding. Long and winding. No, not that road, although I did see a lot of Paul McCartney last night on the PBS Jimi Hendrix documentary. It was nice to see him applauding someone other than the Beatles.

I took the slow road home that night because I wanted to savor the moment. The road was dark, yet light enough that I could see the moss on the rocks and the moon trickling through the trees. I walked down the path that reminded me more than a little of the place Little Red Riding Hood sauntered down with her picnic basket. I always imagined that story in the daylight, though. Interesting because it’s a story about deception and loss.

I took the slow road home because I wanted to see what Robert Frost meant when he chose the one less traveled by. I didn’t encounter any travelers along the way that night, though I did hear an owl hooting and I swear I saw a mouse scamper in front of me. I don’t think it was blind. And there was only one.

I took the slow road home because I had an epiphany in a dream last night that time doesn’t exist. It’s only our perception of it that makes it real (perhaps it was a fever dream brought on my daylight savings lag). What would happen to our perception of time if we lived on a disk instead of a sphere, hurtling through the universe randomly with the sun on one side for a bit, then the other, flipping around at odd times. We’d be trying to dry clothes in the sun when suddenly darkness would engulf the yard. Damn. What time would it be then?

I took the slow road home because I wanted to hear that song one more time. This was before MP3s and YouTube, after all. My life revolved around KCRW anyway. Might as well take another turn around the neighborhood to rock in my Nissan Sentra.

I took the slow road home because the fast road was traffic-jammed. Think about it.

I took the slow road home because I didn’t want to get home too quickly. Then they might be suspicious. Better to leave them wondering where I was than provide proof I existed. Who wants to be monotonous when they be mysterious?

I took the slow road home because it’s hard to write a narrative in first person, apparently. Last week it was easier when we had a character to write about. It was easier to put words and actions into her life than to think of this “I.” Who am I? Am I a character? Someone told me once I should be a standup comedian. I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

She took the slow road home because she wanted to see what was there. It had been several years since she’d returned to her hometown and things were different. Where once there were cow pastures there were now Ikeas. Where wide open spaces gave off the faint scent of green there was the smell of rain on the pavement. The slow road had become fast. Her life kept on spinning. Back and forth and back and forth, and back to a place that no longer existed.