Photographs

I sat on the truck pondering my options and hers.
“Don’t worry ,” the voice called like a mantra. “Don’t worry.”
I felt stupid for revealing doubt to myself and even more stupid to reveal it in the pages of the little black book because god knows I believe in reason first. Any lesson I’ve gained from art or literature or fiction or feeling has always been filtered through the best of my practicality and when that practicality fails I push forward on the feeling that settling in will doom the journey. “Move forward. Forget about that failure Daniel, it’s not a good battle. Fail it and move on.” That’s faith I think, to trust in reason and hope for a more interesting outcome, to hope for change through diligence of mind. And when mind fails, spirit will be there through practice of faith, of the faith I just described, just having presence to move on, push forward, dig.

I decided to take a walk to get away from my role and to get away from domestic things. Domestic things tend to crowd and frighten me, they end up lording over time and time is the key element. I had walked the three days prior and so decided to take a bike and have a look at the next town over. The distance between the towns would be far in Jersey terms but rolled out on long tracks of earth between farms in the western Ontario landscape. I hopped on that bike and peddled in the cool morning air stopping occasionally to admire the misty view of farmsteads or to a peak toward the lake. The air here hung long and cool, similar to some Iowa mornings except it extended here in the northern sun for hours longer. The day developed more slowly. I preferred it. So I peddled to the next community which held a Saturday farmers market, dismounted and browsed the goods. Among the goods was a collector of photographs. For sale, in this booth, were any number of vintage images from personal collections and homesteads and families over time from similar markets and estate sales. I fingered through, holding my spine erect, searching for miracles in the lake noon sun. I searched for signs in those photographs, I searched for rare birds on tin or metal or queer from the standard. I looked for anything of value and I kept looking. When suddenly in the small grove adjacent to the fruit stand parallel there came a scream. I turned to see. Right there under a young maple tree in the park hosting this market a man of about fifty died as his wife looked on. This is true. The woman held the man’s feet, rocking between vomits of air and bile, repeating the dead man’s name. “Andy. Andy. Andy. Andy.” I looked on as trained responders gathered ‘round working Andy’s chest awaiting the transport. The man was dead and the woman, although in full reaction to the scene before her, already knew it. The rest of us looked on, some claiming it cruel to watch, others compelled to make statement – “ you never know”, “it happens to everyone”, “God gives and takes away”, “poor guy”. Others felt compelled to mock those watching as gawkers, muttering insults at the brazen disrespect for privacy. I looked on feeling just the opposite. That to turn away would insult god’s plan. If there was one.

The following day I recalled this to my transport as we crossed the border in that loaded cattle truck. I told him about death and life and the story of the eye and he talked to me about the values of his family and what makes a man a trucker. His story made a lot of sense as my actions did to him. It was simple - I needed a ride, he had a ride, she needed her boy, I was her man, we needed community, we helped where we can. "You'll need us again," Matt said as he dropped me off along the thruway corridor.
"Yes."
"Call and we'll work it out. We got three to five trucks running this route every day."
"Thank you."
And I headed out, knowing there would be a ride, with no real plan, making it home by supper to an empty studio and a hope.