This is a history not purely known, tho’ not ancient. We would drive, once. We would catch ourselves on the wind, up 70. And in those by-ways would be the trees. And in the ancient good ways there would be traversing. And we would take our steps everywhere.
We would have been near Honcut once. This was an old place. It was merely a sign, hidden in the trees. There was a marker so many years ago, green with white lettering, which read “Honcut;” it had an arrow besides and one small number indicating the number of miles distant. I have always thought of that sign, demure sign, arrow to an ancient world, green, hidden in more green; and I could hear the sound of leaves passing. It did have a road, long ancient thing seeping into dust like memory, and progressing, cracks in the original design of things wandering cracks that found other worlds unmarked, and shallow things like the color grey itself, testament to blander ways and quiet voices. I have seen that sign from the road.
And sometimes I lit there too, giving myself and my young one an opportunity to see the sights, for there are traces.
[Signed G. Claire. All rights reserved by the author.]