The Making of Road

No SurarThe dirt stains my boots a tan gold. Shit – everything is dirt washed tan gold. I gave up getting the tinge out months ago – I think it was months ago. Hard to tell how long I’ve been traveling when I can’t see the sky. Each step is exactly like the other, small bushes on the edge of this path coddling my calves. The dirt is beaten down, compact over so many feet, shoes, horses, wagons, and camels. Some parts are smoother than others and I am grateful for each deviated foot before my own.

Distance has been nothing but an uncaught dimension in this terrestrial time of mine, but I know it has been some while since I have seen another. Just as I thought it, one came into view. Standing over a minuscule fire, I watched him pour the contents of his pot into the small round bowl he held, hovering his mouth over the wisps of steam. Boots making their own way to him, I gave in; disliking the once black ropes draped about his body but my once black robes are akin to his – I’ll admit.

“Surar?” The sound tumbled from his mouth slowly, displaying his lack of teeth.

“No.” I answered, but he offered me his bowl willingly and I inhaled, just as he did, those medium sweet wisps.