A flash fiction exploration for the journey of dreams that sometimes carries the burden of what’s left behind.
Closed
by Odin Roark
He knew it was time
To make the trip--
Closure beckoned.
Fifteen hundred miles,
His Prius purred,
Not like the vroom of the big rig
He hitched with
Back then.
Turning slowly onto Main Street,
Tires stirred pothole dust,
Setting adrift
Its fifty-three year residue.
A mangy dog sauntered across his path,
Glanced,
Continued,
Reminding him ghosttowns
Seemed to have
Shadow-lives of their own.
Atop tin-roofed stores,
Rusted weathervanes pointed east,
Fixed on his ambition’s resolve,
A memory-etched hitchhike,
His journey of dreams.
Across the street…
Gerald’s Barber Shop
Still stood,
Its spiral peppermint pole—
Frozen.
General Store displays,
Mere spider-infested windows
Quartering mannequin tombs.
Pleasantville’s only hotel,
Its vacancy sign peeling,
Its weaathered rocking chair left idle.
Harold’s Gas & Oil station,
Its erosion desperately holding on,
It’s single pump still showing
51 cents a gallon.
Pulling to a stop,
He stared blankly through Lucy’s Bakery window.
Even after all these years,
The faded flyer still bore semblance,
His thin pale face at seventeen
Staring back above the word
“Missing.”
He felt remorse.
The town had been good to him.
His parents,
Not so good.
Maybe his imagination was offering solace,
But the colorless face seemed at peace now,
Maybe forgiving him for causing such distress,
That pardoning he never allowed himself.
He smiled at Lucy’s door sign
“Closed.”
Perhaps…finally.
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Ron