Passages

I'm sitting in the newsroom, long after the late shift is over, writing his story. I find myself re-reading the interview, immersing myself in his matter-of-fact and poignant words.

I find I want to take my time in its writing, mindful of this man I've never met to whom I must do justice. I pour all into his story, more than the day's mushrooming wildfire and the quirky accident.

I want to shake his hand, look him in the eye, sit across from him and talk about the open road and wherever it meanders, about his journey here, about his wife and her cancer.

When I leave it's late. Past 1 a.m. I already know who will accompany me on the wet ride home on empty roads. Her voice is rich and heavy like cream.

I know what you wanna say;

I see the words behind your eyes.

By the time you show me what you're hiding,

it won't be no surprise.

As the goose pimples trace their way across my limbs to the familiar guitar, the wrenching cadence of her voice, I decide that tomorrow I will seek him out after the meeting and the appointment.

I will shake his wrinkled, weathered hand. I will look him in the eye from across the lunch table and talk about his story, maybe censored tidbits of mine. In less than a week, he will be gone.

He will carry my written words with him in a bag. Maybe he will remember me. Maybe he will pretend he never told me of his pain so I could feel it, so I could tell the world.

Let me out, let me stay after the sun rises.

I want to be real to you, no more disguises.

Let me in or let me go,

it's time you tell me where you're standing, baby.

I won't go down if you say no;

just open up your mouth and say it, baby.

Speak your heart.