NEXT 1 MILE

 

NEXT 1 MILE

Wooden wagon wheels rolled 
through prairie grass and alkali dust,
over Sierra mountainside from Missouri 
bringing Jeannie’s great grandpa as a baby
to Jeannie’s little ranch 
in what is now Silicon Valley
which she bequeathed to her sister
who immediately sold for subdivision.
As Jeannie’s last wish she gave these funky 
wheels to me, to my home under redwoods.

Moon followed moon. 
Worm followed rot.
Wooden spokes detached, wooden felloes 
collapsed—saved for kindling. 
Rims remain—giant hoops of metal, 
heavy as history.

So today I drive my Subaru 
from the mountains to the Palo Alto clinic
and there’s a highway sign on Route 84
left over from road construction 
as you enter the redwood canyon:
          NEXT 1 MILE
That’s all.

I hitchhiked the American West,
summer 1968, hearing each next mile
like a gift among the yak-yak calls of magpies
a pop song played from every car and truck: 
“Soul Coaxing.” Raymond LeFevre. 
Lush violins. No words.
Then it vanished, as sounds do in the air,
never Number One so never replayed
by oldies radio but launched over light years
to bounce off galaxies and return by surprise
like a lost buffalo—right here, right now
on my drive to the clinic—tune of my memory, 
of alkali and prairie grass
broken by fences and strip malls as I enter
the parking garage for physical therapy.
For balance training. For my internal
wobbly wheel.

In the fireplace I burn remnants of spokes, 
of felloes for warmth launching white smoke 
while balancing on one foot like a 
blue heron in rehab as I hum a lost tune, 
as the creaky old wagon rolls slowly 
toward sunset along the space-warp trail. 
May we find balance. At journey’s end, 
soul rises like smoke. Each mile a gift. 
Look ahead. 

…..

First published in Sheila-Na-Gig. Thank you editor Hayley Mitchell Haugen

*felloes: the wooden outer circle of a wheel held
within the iron rim, to which the spokes are fixed. 

Note: a year later the sign is still there, all alone among the redwoods and traffic. My balance is much improved. Physical therapists work miracles.

Hear me: