Lost and found

That feeling in the late afternoon, when the sun is low and hot, burning my arm that's draped along the open car window as I blow into town, dust drifting across the railroad tracks, long shadows pointing into the east, that's when I know I'm somewhere else, lost in the vast spaces of the West. The dirt and gravel crunches under the weight of the tyres as I bring the journey to a pause, the car rocking gently to a stop as I pull on the handbrake. Silence is complete with a turn of the key that kills the engine. Then a dog barks, someplace in a far off yard, a warning to the new stranger in town. The hood pings as the metal, hot from the 350 miles that brought me here, starts to cool.

Time to get out, stretch, yawn, take a look around. Nothing much is moving in this place, except for the flag, the stars and bars, 'Old Glory', flapping from its pole outside the post office. I take off my hat and pass the back of my hand across a creased brow before tipping it back on with a flick of the wrist, pulling it low to make a shadow for my eyes.

I walk past some working pickups, parked and angled into the wooden sidewalk. The boards creak and moan as I step up and move toward the sign that says Shirley's Burnt Biscuit Bakery. The menu outside says, 'read before you enter'. I make sure this is done and pull open the screen door to pass into the darkness within. Before the door can slap shut behind me, the old guy with the red baseball cap who had been sitting outside follows me in. There's no need for greetings as he's already nodded hello, working a match from the corner of his mouth. It's still there when he asks 'What can I get you?', as he eases himself past me to take his place behind the counter. I order from memory and take a seat close to the window.

The chef, who I would later know as Jerry but never call him that, busies himself with my order, working fast, doing something that he'd done a million times for people like me that come in tired and in need of short time renewal, served up on a plate, hot and plentiful with a mug of coffee to wash it down. As Jerry chops, slices, spreads and pats, the griddle spitting into life, I stretch out and watch the dust falling through the sunlight's beams around the legs of the tables and chairs that surround me. Dust that had been sand blasted from the rocks of ages in the desert beyond and carried on the wayward wind to settle on the floor under my feet for a while, before a breeze through the open door, or some movement inside sweeps it up and carries it on till the very end of time itself. That's how I feel right now. As small as a speck, broken off from the world, to be taken wherever fate should decide.