Simple Truth

By Peter Bowden


She asked the man where he'd been, her words drifting like a ribbon of smoke in a still room. Outside, the day was a cathedral of gold and dust, and the air between them shimmered as if holding its breath. In that question, he saw the map of his life: roads that twisted into fog, corners where the light never reached, the slow, grinding weight of labor, the sound of his own heart cracking under the strain of goodbye.

There had been winters that refused to leave, and summers that burned too hot. He had carried stones of regret in his pockets until they wore holes clean through. There were nights he lay awake, listening for footsteps that never came, mornings when he rose and stitched the day together from scraps of faith and stubbornness. Somewhere in the wandering, the hurt began to green again, as if the earth itself had leaned close and whispered, heal.

Her eyes were green oceans he'd never sailed, yet he knew they led home. He thought of all the miles, all the years, all the ghosts he'd passed along the way. Then he smiled, the truth simple and said, “On my way here.”


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