Estranged

The unnamed stranger sat on the side of the road staring out towards the ocean. The wide river that separated the cities was not to be compromised either. It did not argue with invasion of visitors. It did not stomp to a halt because of inconvenience. Time simply passed everyone on by as seasons changed. On that day, the miniature icebergs were back as they had been every year for centuries. No one knew where they had been nor where they were going. Cars were driven by drivers who never gazed long enough to discern whether it was even a man or a woman who sat within their sight. They simply passed the person oblivious to any care or concern. But the stranger had a story to tell if anyone cared to listen.

On that day, the wind was strangely silent as though it was holding its breath to see what would happen next. The icebergs did not care who watched, who moaned who wailed by the rail. They without a thought continued to happily bounce about showing their dirty undercoats, never telling what they had seen or where they had been. They whispered no secrets. They coughed up no lies nor could they be found sputtering up strange imaginations or grandiose exaggerations. They had quietly and blissfully followed the stranger who had been traveling near their path far ahead of them. Now that the stranger was at rest, they continued their way passing joyfully along and never twisted back. The flow of the river forbade such a move.

Suddenly, the stranger yelled with a mighty roar that only someone who had known great loss would understand. There was so much buried envy and jealousy cast at the steady path that the icebergs made. How could it be so simple to drift along with the flow? How could one just imagine oblivion? The sound that the stranger abruptly made was the scream of deep pain, so deep that nothing could cut it out. Even then, the cars flew passed unaware of the other’s struggle, unaware of any turbulence within or without. It was as though that pain had flung itself onto the bumpers and dragged itself far away like it wanted out as much as the stranger wanted it gone. Then, just as suddenly as it flew out, the stranger with great composure and reassembled dignity began to slowly plod along once more, chasing the miniature icebergs with no hopes of ever catching up. In fact, the entire demeanor was one of despair and loss of hope.

Hour after hour, car after car, person after person, not one even slowed down to offer assistance because no one could see the pain that had poured over the brims of the stranger’s eyes. They could not hear the inner moaning that was without comfort. The trudging had been paced by the moaning of regretful decisions, made with no possibility of changed outcomes. Had anyone have stopped to ask, they would have simply laughed. For the stranger however, it was not a laughing or a simple matter. It was a matter of principle. It was an issue that had taken decades to blossom. It screamed of wasted time, wasted efforts, and wasted resources.

Finally, the destination of the stranger was reached. The miles of walking was about to cease. The timid knock on the door reverberated quite loudly, blending into the fading traffic. Inch by inch the door squeaked open, and the wind began to blow the chill from the miniature icebergs floating by, just as the warmth crept out from the hall. But it was the smell of fresh-baked bread and cinnamon clove hot apple cider that reached out to pull the weary stranger in to hear the simplest of greetings: “Merry Christmas! Welcome Home!”