What Happens On The Way

Near the top of Kilburn Road, I approached my neighbor’s, a light misting rain patting my face. Kilburn is not much different, slicing through farmland, the lone house built before George Washington.

“Hey, what’s up?”

Mario’s, in his driveway with the front wheels off his Volvo, working in November half light. He’s always fiddling with something.

Small talk leads to Hilary and Trump, Obama, immigration and the god damn republicans.

“Minimum wage,” he says, “who can live on that?”

“So, let’s get together during Christmas,” I offer. “We gotta catch up.”

“Yeah sure, I can bring something.”

I head home refreshed.

Because a good walk is food for the soul.

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