He appeared from the rolling hills of the countryside. Among the
maples, cedars, cottonwoods. The deep thuds of pumping oil wells. His
days of exploration, scaling barbed-wire fences, throwing two-seamers.
Always afraid to miss out. Fascinated. Infatuated. Fully immersed.
Never sheltered, the son of a worldly traveler, the son of a
blue-collar splicer. Learned, open-minded, experimenting with
experience. Met it all head-on. Always there. Saturday nights near the
bonfire. Cheap beer on ice. Good friends. His inconspicuous departure.
Forgotten reasoning. To find something, maybe? What did he seek? Was
he secure? Was he satisfied? Was he bored? His motives unknown. He
still pops up occasionally. Waves hello, then he’s gone. Almost a
stranger now. Still has that look. Curious. Stoic. I’ll never forget
his face.
