Rendered Fat Content


"We're just passing through tonight."

If I stay in one place long enough, the whole world seems to snuggle in around me. What's near remains near; far away stays put. Others might move into and back out of the scene, but a serene stability settles in to surround me. I find this sensation not even a tiny bit confining, but quite the opposite. I find it liberating, for within that close confine, I sense my place in this world as well as the world's proper place in my space. We exist in a reassuring balance, one where I feel about as free as I ever expect to feel.

We headed back to Colorado early this morning before the sun had topped the still snow-capped foothills.
By the time dawn broke, we had progressed far enough down the road that I suspect the world had missed our exit. We were anonymous again, two tootlers heading who knows where with nobody to care where, anyway. The Muse took a business call while I found a bite of breakfast, sparring with the smart-mouthed waitress before pacing quietly beside the car while she finished her call. The drive itself seemed effortless, improved by our new set of wheels, so new we hardly recognized ourselves as we passed familiar scenery. The Blues had taken a frosting of freezing fog overnight, Tamaracks silvery in the strengthening Spring sunshine. By the time we reached Idaho, we had almost escaped the pull.

We spent the afternoon with our world steadily receding behind us. We'd achieve some minor milestone, some anticipated turnoff or another State boundary marker, and feel as though we were making decent progress, likely to arrive on time. The hotel desk clerk learned from her video display that we'd stayed here before, welcoming us back, though we'd already decided not to hit our usual haunt. The last visit convinced us that some change had come over the once-welcoming and familiar place, the warm anticipation of a replay receding even as we left after that woe begotten meal. Tonight, I chose a place we later ascertained represented a regrettable supper house. I tipped the folk singer better than I tipped the waiter who, the owner explained, was a trainee this night.

The short walk back to the hotel dragged behind us every mile we'd traveled today. I deeply felt the absence of our recent cocoon, our wings still too wet and frail to do much but droop and flail. We'll be flying away by morning, though, fresh country receding behind, producing what we'll consider to be progress then. We have been travelers for nearly a decade now, exiled before starting the strenuous swim back toward security again. We're closer, but still receding away more than cozying in. We have become genuine best friends, closer as a direct result of so much receding shared between us. The sun sets late in Ogden this time of year, though the springtime's barely here. The Wasatch received a fresh dusting of snow this morning which brought her craggy face into sharp resolution. She seemed to stare down at us as if wondering whether we were here to cozy in or just passing through. We're just passing through tonight.

©2018 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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