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On the Way.

(- what follows is a true story. more a story than a poem. yet, one I have so wanted for so long to tell... -)

On the way
Southbound far into Texas.
It's a long stretch of asphalt,
When the night is late, and so dark
Out on highway 277, moving
From Sonora to Del Rio... and points further south.
Not another soul about,
Just me, my old truck, and the stars.
It's quiet
- and lonely -
Headed down old Mexico way...
Pass a car sitting on the side
- broke down I'm sure -
A coyote with fear and hunger in its eyes
Runs across the road, right in front of me.
Then, a mile or so up, I see him, walking,
Gas can in hand.
I stop, open the door and holler:
' need a lift? '
He simply says: ' gracias ' and climbs aboard.
I pull back out onto the empty road,
Start a conversation,
He smiles, and with very broken English
Does his best to respond.
It takes a spell but I soon understand
He is on his way to Mexico too,
- it is the old homeland for him -
His car ran out of gas,
And most important of all
His wife who is pregnant awaits his return...
in the car!
I offer to go back to get her.
He softly says no... he must get the gas.
The way he speaks, the way he moves,
Lends me to know, this is a gentle, hard-working man
- with a heart as big, and old, as all of Mexico -
More difficult conversation follows,
But, it is so well worth the effort;
I can't say quite why
But I have quickly grown to like and respect this good, simple man
- as if an amigo I've known from old -
He came north to find work,
Provide for his family.
I went south for rest,
And to find meaning.
But, things never work out exactly as planned.
They decided it important to have their nino
- so soon due -
In Mexico, among family, grandparents and such
- this is ofcourse as it should be -
They have little money,
And no friends up here;
If only they can make it back
To Old-Mexico.

Together, me and my new found friend,
Drive deep into the night,
Not once seeing another car.
It's a long, desolate way to a town
With an open gas station.
I am glad for the company of such an honest soul.
He is glad for the ride.
Twice along the journey we see a falling star
- 'good medicine' my red brothers would say -
One for him, and one for me.
Finally a station with lights aglow comes into view.
As we stop, he offers me a dollar
From the small stash of bills he has waded up in his pocket.
I ofcourse refuse,
And offer him much more in return
- ' a gift for the new baby ' I happily say -
or, gas money to get you home.
He smiles, sincerely thanks me,
And gently, proudly refuses.
- I wish he'd take it, I so want to give it -
I tell him I'll wait
And give him a ride back;
I think he feels he has burdened me too much already;
Ofcourse he has not at all,
This ride has been as much for me,
As for him
- God knows -
But, he insists someone here will give him a return ride.
I cannot change his resolute mind.
So, I wish him all the best,
Feeling I should say, and do,
Something more...
But I don't know what;
We shake hands
- and for just a brief moment of grace
we are hermanos, brothers of light in a dark world -
He closes the door.
Turns, with can in hand,
And slowly walks away...
On his own way, back to Old-Mexico.
I pull out onto the road.
The trip is now lonlier than ever.
In my own way, I too
Am on the way,
Back home
- to an old country, where I belong -

It's been nearly 30 years now,
I think of him often.
I wonder if he ever recalls me at all.
I wish I'd have gotten his name
...so I knew who to pray for...
I wish he'd have taken the money
...so his wife would have had enough to eat...
I wish I'd have given him the ride back
...so I knew they were safe...

I wonder how they are.
Did he find work?
Did he get caught up in revolution?
Is he still alive?
Was their child a boy or a girl?
- now a man or a woman -
I'm certain I shall never see him again,
in this world,
Yet, what if someday, by some great chance,
His child and my child should cross paths... along the way,
Fully unaware of the history of it all?
What if somewhere
On a lonley, dark desert night
His child gives my child a ride;
A ride that perhaps
- in ways unknown to any of us -
Saves them... saves us all...

What a deep mystery life is.
Could it possibly be
That every little deed we do,
On our way through,
To wherever it is we go,
Matters in ways
We may never, here, know?
- may we all find the Way,
on our way -

poem by Smoky Hoss
Added by Poetry Lover
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