Stilled

I was on a familiar country road, pocked and pitted and bordered by dandelions and buttercups, its edges frayed—tire biters.

“Stop,” the sign turned toward me read, held by a man whose face was flat with boredom, his white hard hat flecked with pits from tossed up gravel. Lately, it’s been feeling like I’m always stopped in my tracks, some sign telling me to stay right where I am, a bored stranger carrying all the power.

Once, I had pulled over at this very spot when I caught a view of two bald eagles flying low overhead. I edged off the side, caught up in the sheer grace of the moment. Looking up, I heard the squeak of their calls to each other, a big winged bird with a small throated sound. Cars and trucks rumbled by. I pointed up; nobody slowed down or looked skyward. The eagles circled and dipped and rasped.

I had stopped of my own accord, staring up into the cirrus streaked sky, idling in wonder.

The man in front of my car spoke into a crackling radio, spun the sign around, giving me new directions.

“Slow”.

I eased over the train tracks, over the road that was losing all its winter carved potholes. The smell of creosote was sharp and dark.

The road was smooth and quiet. I had been wanting a smoother road for a long time now.

The tires hummed over the new pavement. I turned the radio down. My thoughts unjumbled themselves from their dueling hemispheres of worry and fretting.

“No Center Line” lit up in yellow in front of me. A sign, a portent, an omen.

It was a relief to not be divided down the middle, just for a minute. To have someone warn me that my regular guidance wasn’t available to me for a small space in time. I was on a smooth road, shining signs were giving me advice, my tires were the first ones to travel this new road. I was leaving tracks where none had been before.

I was aimed toward home. I could still feel the shadows of long ago eagles.