Having made up my mind to no longer lie awake in morning’s bed resisting the day, I get up just after five and pad out the bedroom door. I do not wake my wife, my children, the dog or cat. I dress in darkness. Walk outside. November air rises in clouds from me. The morning comes alive. I walk past the old hotel, the abandoned golf course, up the hill. Off the dirt road, a tar paper shack. Something about it. I cross to the front door. Knock. Pull the knob. The door, closed decades before, refuses me. I sit on the good step and look out to the road. I imagine a man from years before. Small, wearing a hat and beard. He believes in God, tobacco, Richard Nixon. His name is a syllable. Early morning, unable to sleep, he sits on this step looking at the road. Feeling the need to walk, he stands, pulls the door tightly shut though he knows it will stick if it rains, if he’s gone long. He walks into the road and pauses. I follow. Neither of us knows where to go, but he sets off with no more hesitation, sure enough to not look back. But I pause knowing how difficult it is to get back and pry open the doors of our homes.
