Member-only story
My Perfect Day
NOTE: Found this in my drafts. I’m way late to the party. The My Perfect Day thing ended a while ago. I am, however, publishing anyway, because that, friends, is how I roll.
I wake to a warm wind blowing through a boxcar’s open door. Blur of golden summer grain in my eyes. Rhythmic thump and thud of train wheels reverberating like clockwork and sending little shockwaves through my body.
Over the early morning horizon hangs a crescent moon with a single star swinging beneath it like a pendulum, both retreating from the coming sun.
Occasionally the interiors of empty shacks gape back at me through broken windows. Invisible players fill the air with fiddle song. Buzz and whine of insects and the smell of honeycomb and mossy creek-rocks.
A young Jack Kerouac stirs at the far side of the car. This is long before he became a used-up drunk distrustful of hope.
“Where we going, chief?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” I answer.
“Been there a time or two before.”
We laugh.
I Don’t Know’s the town we always end up back at. We may head out to visit Memory or Riddle or Sweet Home, but we always wind up back at I Don’t Know. We know we always will.
