The Traveler


            He’s tired.  He’s weak.  He’s sore, weathered, and scarred.  He is coming home - home for the first time in many years.  With him he brings memories and mementoes of far away battles, of victories and defeats, of times of plenty and feasts, and of times of scarcity and hunger.  He remembers well the good times and the friendships that made those times good.  He remembers as well the bad times and the loneliness that made those times bad.  Adventures to the four corners have painted everlasting pictures upon the canvass of his mind.  He sees the world through the red eyes of one who has traveled far, labored long, and slept little.

            Weary eyes - teary eyes - eyes that are overjoyed by thhe sights of the friendly faces and familiar places of home watch soft, white hands clasp his tanned, calloused paws in eager welcome.  They see frail and fragile arms drape over his broad and battered shoulders with emotion befitting such a homecoming, and when those weary, teary, red eyes look upon and gaze into the bright, dark, and longing eyes of the one for whom this homecoming is made, and she places warm, wet kisses upon the seasoned, brown skin of his weathered face, he closes those eyes of his, takes her into his aching, outstretched arms, and squeezes her for what seems an eternity until the tears come no more.

            Then… with all of his memories of his travels in tow, he takes the hand of his homecoming queen and leads her off to make more memories – memories brighter than the fullest harvest moon on a crisp, early-autumn evening, warmer than the hottest noon-time sunshine on a bright late-spring day, higher than the loftiest mountain peak and deeper than the darkest blue ocean waters – memories stronger… than the traveler’s call to travel.


This was recalled from memory this day August 9th, 1990.

Original copy lost – written last month sometime.


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