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It was early, real early. The sun was just starting to come up. He didn’t want to get up but the ride was going to be long, long and difficult. He thought about shaving, but decided against it. It didn’t seem to make any sense. Who would be there to see him? Slowly he dragged himself to the closet, taking out faded blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt and putting them on. Last he laced up his boots and head for the door taking care to be quiet on the way out, so as not to wake anyone else. On his way to the front door he grabbed his old leather jacket draped over the edge of the railing in the foyer.
In the drive way was parked a 1957 Harley-Davidson Panhead. For years his friends had teased him about the old thing. There were newer, smoother running models, that didn’t leak oil like a sieve they said. Their foreign bikes were much lighter and could go much faster he’d been told, but that’s not why he rode. He rode for the freedom, the feeling of the open road and wind in his hair. Nothing compared to the feeling of the rough engine rumbling between his legs, the pipes in back thundering out as he tore up the road. Getting on the bike he kicked the starter once, twice and then the engine roared to life.
The weather was cool, the air was crisp and the leaves were just beginning to change. Under normal circumstances it would have been the perfect day for a ride through the mountains of New Hampshire. Today was different however, today he had knots in his stomach. His mind wandered. Some people just keep on taking, even after they are dead they the demand they place on your life only gets heavier. Why should he go to the funeral of someone who was never there for him? This question remained in his head as mile after mile of mountain highway flashed past him.
The pace began to slow as he took his next exit off the highway. He knew the course he was taking very well; he had traveled it many times before a long time ago. Now however the small town seemed strange to him. It wasn’t that the town had changed; it was that his place in it no longer existed there, being forfeit many years before.
Taking a left onto Elm St. he quickly slowed and then came to a stop. The little league field was on Elm St. and a game had just gotten over. A crossing guard stood in the road to let out all the cars from the game. He could hear all the children yelling and playing as their parents tried to get them into the cars to leave. Memories came flooding back of all the baseball games he had played before on that same field. Home runs and strikeouts, he was the star player on his team. Then it was cut short. No one was ever there to cheer for him, no one ever took him out for ice cream after wards. Images of a boy waiting for his dad to show up a long time after everyone else had gone home crept into his mind.
After being allowed to pass down Elm St. he took a right on to Washington and kept driving. He had never liked riding down Washington. Up ahead there was a car stopped in the road. As he got closer he could see that there had been an accident, a man leaving the Legion parking lot had pulled out with out looking and hit another driver. The damage wasn’t bad and no one appeared to be hurt so he kept driving. The Legion was where his father used to go to drink. When he was younger and his father was still around some, he would be sent down there to bring him home at night by his mother. As things got worse he would just stop coming home. By the time he was twelve it was normal for his father to show up drunk even though he didn’t live there anymore. He’d show up after long periods of time with no word at all, overly friendly, riding in like a returning champion. That would last until his mother realized he had come by, then the fighting started. Then as quick as he came he was gone.
He drove past Sycamore and planned on taking Lincoln St. to the Church. When he came to the end of the road where Washington met Lincoln he had to turn around due to road construction. The detour led back through Sycamore. Driving down Sycamore his jaw tightened. In the front yard of his old house a man and his son were tossing a football. He longed for that kind of relationship. He wanted it more than anything. It was for that very reason that he had never missed a single one of his own son’s hockey practices let a lone an actual game. He couldn’t imagine not being around to see his son grow up, it was for this same reason he had never had a drink in his life, It was why he went to work everyday and gave his best, working with all he had to keep a job even when times were tough, and why he was the man he was.
He pulled up to the church, the end of his long journey. Coming to a stop he put his feet down and the thundering of the engine cut out. Slowly he moved out the kickstand with his foot and dismounted. He walked slowly, slightly bowlegged from the long ride, up the stairs of the little white country church. The door creaked as he opened it slowly. No one was inside apart from an old man who was clearly dressed as the minister. A few people had sent small flower arrangements but not bothered to show up. None of it was surprising but it still caught him off guard.
There, in the front pew, all by himself, a hardened man sat alone, His face rough and unshaven, hair wild from the wind, the smell of exhaust on his clothes and sunglasses on his face. He sat quietly while the minister said what few words he had written, and mostly generic at that. A lone tear fell from underneath one of the dark lenses. When the minister finishes, where does he go from here? He lets out a deep breath and with it taking in the realization that forgiveness is like breathing, you can’t take the next breath without releasing what’s already inside you.