Westward

Last night we sang our last goodnight nursery rhymes to Mackenna and drove rain-black highways from Akron to Medina. 

“Papa be right back?” asked Mackenna.

“Papa will be back,” I answered.

“Papa be right back?” she asked again.  Her big eyes fixed on me.

“Papa will be back,” I repeated.

Inside me, I felt yesterdays melting into tomorrows.  I felt stuffed animals nudging at my feet. 

This morning we are heading across the into-rain and after-rain Midwest.  We will tree our way, traffic our way, dark sky our way, and map our way west.  Back to the open lands.  Back to Mountains holding snow. Back to skies where clouds have room to tumble across.

On one hand: Mackenna.

On the other: the West, my home on this Earth.

This is not a perfect balance.

--Mitchell Hegman