So Long, So Wrong

The road slowed, curved and was quickly hemmed in by a flanking white posted fence strung with cables on a wide shoulder of gravel pictured, remembered and stored for use at a later date and eventually reflected in the folk art of the countryside, tickling my dormant mind into remembrance years later, those posts standing guard around a graveyard of regret and shaded unhappiness still courting some half dead archetype and wounding it by association; no wonder it retaliates with such ferocity. It taught division and partitioned my mind, while hovering just beyond, the long and wide expanse of green grass I wish I could have run to for recourse, for re-ammunition or for sustenance lay open and inviting but too good and too far for me to reach by the time the car slowed and he jumped out, accusing and sure in his anger. I could have run, but I wasn't guilty. I could have hid but had nothing to hide. Now I wish I had thrown a rock at his car, subversive and small-minded fit his description of me much better than young and distracted, hiding from the tanks that were rolling into town on that hot sunny day in August, with nothing to do and nowhere to go.