The Traveller
by Ashley Morton
She was a cacophony of colors, the way autumn rolls in on a gust of crisp wind and changes the leaves as she rolls past them. Then she lingers, the way the cold air bites at your cheeks each morning, and goes away just for a moment, while the sun shines her warmth upon you. And then she’s back in the night, bringing tempestuous rain and frosty mornings. At last, when earth falls asleep and winter comes, you miss her. You miss her chaos and sudden changes, you miss her mystery. The way she blew into your life, changing all of your well laid plans, messed up your hair, and then left you wishing she’d of stayed a little longer.
You should have known what she was about when you first saw her, leaving a trail of dust wherever she went. Not fairy dust, or any kind of imaginary glitter that you picture beautiful women leave behind in their wake. It was literally dust. Dirt mixed with bits of wood chips and chipped paint. She traveled well, one could easily tell. The little trailer buggied up to the rusted out, army green pickup in the parking lot of the cafe told of places she’d been, places she was now apart of. Places that missed her the way you already missed her, and you hadn’t even said hello yet. You felt it - you’d miss her.
See, this kind of woman engrains herself into the very fabric of a town, working her way into lives and wearing folks down gently like a handrail on a set of one-hundred year old stairs. Women like this, trusted forever, almost forgotten in the daily bits of life, running up and down the stairs - going to and fro throughout your day - not noticing exactly what helped you up, who held you up. Not noticing exactly what or who it was, faithfully there in your hands, until they were gone. Women like this finally create their own storm and leave, becoming who they were meant to be.
She’d then bless another town with her chaos and charismatic laughter. Now having pushed aside all of her past hurts, she was truly herself. Her hair wildly wrapped up to keep the wind from blowing it in her face. You’d almost believe she brought the wind with her, her own personal tornado. Her dark green eyes could bring a king to his knees. Like the earthen pottery you picked up from a farmers market in a small town you’ll never remember the name of. That’s her. Wild and traveled and - you crave her. You wish that was your life, who you could either be or be with.
And then, just like that, she’s gone. She has her to-go coffee and bagel, and you sit at the counter watching her every move as though you have to memorize the way the light hits each cheekbone, because you might never see anything like it again. And you’re right, you won’t.
Your heart aches as you watch her walk out, leaving more dust with each step. Wood chips and chipped paint. She whistles for her dog and they load up in their truck, which you’re fairly certain was vintage before your grandmother was born. But when you see her in it, you can see the charm. It suits her. It all does. She looks like a painting of a warm desert sunset in Palm Springs, circa 1970.
When you look down to your cafe breakfast of now cold eggs, gelatinous being the kindest word to describe them, you realize this isn’t the life you want anymore. Can one woman make that much of a difference in the path of ones life? If she’s that true to who she is, you think, then maybe you can be, too. And when you run out in the parking lot to where your angel just was, willing you to lead a wilder life without ever making eye contact with you, you see she’s gone. And just like that, autumn turns to winter and the wind whips colder, biting bitterly at your cheeks.
You suddenly have a choice. You’re awake now, so you at least owe yourself that much. As if someone had poured freezing, icy water onto your lap while you were sleeping, waking you up from the dullest lullaby you’ve never bothered to dream. You have a choice, now that you’re very soul is aching for travel, for dirt, for wood chips and chipped paint. Do you go and follow the tornado leaving town? Do you keep going as you were - barely alive? Or, do you decide to create your own storm? Causing the wind and sun and seasons to follow you as well, the way she brought golden hour sunlight everywhere she went.