A Traveler's Tracks

An airborne pickup truck reflects in small, wide eyes. One dark mass among the clouds. Raindrops burst in great spasms against a van's windshield, blurring its crooked path.

The moment of impact happens in the span of a blink.

Soft curls whirl until they’re crushed against metal. Tires screech on wet pavement. Blurred movements toss two passengers from their seats; clubbing the third.

It's a lanky teenager that finds his bearings first, getting to his knees. Frigid winds tear away his voice. It carries his sister’s cries closer.

“Papi?”

The gaping hole that took her seat now steals her balance. Sweaty hands strain to grab stubby fingers. Mateo lunges, but a tangled seatbelt catches his leg. He's tethered in place, watching his little sister tumble backward.

Calloused hands manage to snag the hem of her dress, fisting the soft material. “Mirabel?”

Mirabel’s curls dance along the pavement. Shards of glass tangle in the longest strands. The overturned pickup truck skids to a halt behind them, holding the roof of their van and two crumpled doors as trophies.

Breadcrumbs of their life tumble into the road. Clothes. Pictures. Her plush rabbit lay in the middle of the rubble, untouched. Another offering for Traveler’s Road.

It already took their mother…their eldest brother…and now their home.

“Papi, pull over.” Mateo’s pleas echo somewhere above her. She tilts her head, catching glimpses of an upside-down fever dream. Their father’s arms are rigid in front of him, as if the steering wheel wasn’t in the back seat. Glazed eyes are glued to the horizon. Mateo fists her dress with a white-knuckled grip, kicking a foot toward their father. “Por favor, Papi. Please!” Desperate words fall on deaf ears.

No one stops on Traveler’s Road. Billboards advertise a bright future, but eight generations have yet to find it. Ancestors drove their ‘temporary’ home until the next set of hands took their place. Each loss only tightens their resolve. No stopping to rest, to admire the sunset or the stars. Their father drives for a chance at a future. A very bleak future.

“Por favor- it’s Mirabel!” Fingernails dig into her calf, ripping her hemline as she slides from his grip. The bridge of her nose inches closer to a looping belt of concrete. Raindrops bust apart on the bumpy terrain and splatter her cheek. Some clear. Some pink. A metallic tang scents the air.

“Papi?”

Grooves are carved into the pavement; filled with mechanical jaws that bite into tires. Their bald set slides back into the trenches. Puncture wounds already mark their miles. A roller-coaster ride they can never get off.

Mirabel desperately claws at the van’s underside. Her curls are drifting closer to the snapping jaws. Whispered promises float past her head. Their father mumbles under his breath. His promise to keep driving. He’ll be the one to reach the end of the road. If not him, Mateo or Mirabel.

Each of his swirling fingerprints are embedded with glass. Blood drips onto his feet and rolls off, landing on pavement. Mirabel watches it mix with the rain.

The snap of a broken seatbelt pulls her from the trance. Mateo huffs, swinging his leg over the seat. A string of curses is aimed at their father. Loud shouting. Snarls. The man doesn’t respond. He doesn’t seem to hear them. He doesn’t seem to care.

Resolve pinches her brother’s features. They’ll be no more begging.

The shell of their father slumps forward, hitting a line of jagged glass that used to be their windshield. His arms stay rigid. Mirabel whimpers, watching the pavement become slick.

Words are spoken through clenched teeth. “Hold on to me, tight.”

Raging winds pluck them from their temporary home.

Her stomach plunges. Rain blurs their view.

Trembling hands fist soft cotton.

Dewy grass slaps her cheek.

Her palms are sticky.

“Mirabel?”

“Papi?”           

A mangled van speeds down Traveler’s Road.

A thousand others chase it away.

Familiar scents waft around them. Spices. Stale sweets. Burnt rubber. It’s all their belongings, crushed on the roadway. Her plush bunny lay in pieces, dissected by a thousand unmoving wheels. Mirabel fists grass, lifting her chin to the billboard looming above.

 Traveler’s Road – The Path to a Bright Future

She throws a clump of dirt at the picket-fenced advertisement. Another handful. Three more. She pretends she’s wreaking havoc, until a calloused hand clamps down on her shoulder. Mirabel turns, staring at a mirror image of her own face. Hard angles and hollowed cheeks.

Mateo detangles the shards of glass from her curls. Wipes the blood off her cheek. Detaches the drooping hemline from her stained dress. When he’s done, he pulls her to his chest and hides silent tears over her shoulder.

She tangles her fingers in the raven-colored curls at the nape of his neck and pretends not to notice.

“Shoo,” she hisses at a blur of wings. Birds chirp over their heads, surveying the latest roadkill. “Go away,” she stomps. Most of the curious onlookers dart back into their sanctuary of petals. Some poke their heads out to watch.

"Mirabel, I-" Mateo clears his throat. He swipes a hand over his eyes and lifts his head. Her brother takes one last look at their things scattered on the road. Words barely escape trembling lips. “Familia, right? That’s all we need.”

She nods her agreement.

Careful footsteps mark soft dirt. They venture into a field of yellow, rippling waves. Thick stems multiply until they touch the horizon.

Mirabel runs her finger along a velvet petal. It comes away cut and bloody. Bulging eyes watch the lethal plants sway. The bloody finger is hidden in the folds of her dress as she chases after her brother. They’re careful not to touch any part of the flowers as they trek through the field.

The farther they walk, the taller the flowers become. Stems grow to the size of tree trunks. Golden hues seep through a canopy of petals. Mirabel takes the lead, growing as fast as the flowers. Mateo sheds his teenage years, rolling the bulk of muscle in his shoulders.

A spinning circle of night and day records their developments. Navigating the golden forest becomes second nature. Through the gaps in the stems, others make appearances. Voices surround them, and fade. Visitors expand their party by five, and then back to two.

They walk. Run. Sit. Shiver. Sweat. Mirabel ties thick, raven waves into braids that hang down her back. She describes the things they’ll have when they reach paradise. Not that they need it. “Familia,” she reminds him. “All we need is here.”

Summers last the longest in their golden forest. Autumn is mere minutes. Winters are brutal, and springtime gives them a reprieve from the bitter cold. They’re nothing more than ants huddled in the melting snow. Collecting water. Picking occasional berries. Chatting with the birds.

Old wounds heal to fresh scars. Mateo’s hands are patterned in textured cords. Cuts to Mirabel’s jaw become pale threads under the moonlight. “Just a little further,” she promises. Torn fingers are hidden in a tattered dress.

They walk until the stems become too thick to navigate. With nothing more than dim light streaming through overlapping petals, it’s hard to tell where to step. Enough cuts have ripped their skin open. Their muscles have weakened over the months. Exhaustion pokes at their mental barriers. 

Eventually, Mirabel sinks into the dirt at her brother’s feet. Silent sobs shake raven wisps from her braids. This isn’t the better life they hoped for. Petals block out the sun. They’ve lost sight of the birds.

Two more steps into the amber forest shatters Mateo’s restraint. “This is more of the same.”

Her muffled sniff is answer enough.

“We’re walking an endless field. Driving an endless road. This life is endless torture.” He rubs dirty fingers over tired eyes. Mateo collapses into the dirt at his sister’s side. Something cold and hard pinches the skin on his back. He groans and flips over.

Mechanical jaws are hidden in deep grooves, covered by weeds.

“Oh, no, no.” Mateo stumbles on sore, bruised feet.

Mirabel yelps as she’s dragged backward.

Dirt clouds their sudden retreat.

“Where are we going?”

Petals draw blood.

“Mateo?”

His focus switches between wobbly feet and oversized stems. Darkness mocks their attempt at freedom, blurring the gaps between flowers. Sunlight illuminates their heaving chests, urging them to hurry. It fades into flecks on a dark canvas, mocking them again.

Scenery changes. Mateo drags Mirabel through knee-deep mud. Filth stains their skin. The heaviest of it claims the worn leather they used to call shoes. Walking becomes difficult. Mateo leans down to pluck Mirabel from its depth.

There’s not a little girl waiting for him, as there once was.

Mateo peers into wide, almond eyes. The woman reaches an arm out to steady him, assuring him it’s “…just a little further.” Her hand is only inches below his, without straining on her tiptoes or climbing from rock to rock. His memories are overlapping slats, all bleeding together. He can’t remember when they aged, or if he stopped to wish her a happy birthday.

A misstep brings him to his knees. Mud splatters his face. He doesn’t have enough energy to wipe it off. For the first time in a long time, everything goes still. The wind ceases to blow. His thoughts are blank. Mirabel is a shadow at his side.

How did…

Why didn’t I…

                       …

No more questions.

We’re not going any further.

Rays of sun kiss his cheeks and nose. Another few rotations of light gives him the strength to lift his head. Miles of land extend in every direction. Fields of towering sunflowers. The distant sound of moving vehicles. The constant clicks of mechanical tracks.

Mateo staggers to his feet and follows their stale footsteps back through the mud.

“Where are you going? We’ll lose our progress.” Raven braids are caked in mud, he realizes. Her face is a canvas of pale threads. All these years, his gaze barely faltered from the horizon, as he repeated quiet promises he made for his sister. To keep her safe and happy.

He failed.

“That wasn’t progress. That was walking.”

A second pair of footsteps echoes his. They leave the boggy land and re-enter the golden forest. The sight of the first stem causes Mirabel to flinch. Mateo swallows his guilt. He blocks her view, covering her hands in mud. Questioning looks don’t find answers. They keep walking. Mateo shields Mirabel from every stem. Every hidden groove.

He walks until a blanket of pure gold lays at their feet. A fallen petal.

With great care, the deadly edge wedges itself into the tallest stem, severing root from dirt. The ancient flower tips, hurtling toward the ground. Mirabel fights to keep her balance as the earth trembles. Mateo repeats the process, again and again.

Hardened mud protects their fingers. Sunlight points out every hidden groove in the dirt, watching them dig. It shines light on their square of overturned land.

Buckets of heavy mud are carried to their worksite. Stems are dried under blazing heat. Mechanical jaws are detached. Framework begins to take shape. Over time, it grows. Staircases are added. Dirt is moved to fit a basement. A garden. A life.

Mirabel crushes withered petals to make paint. Art is slathered on the walls. Some of it is thrown at her brother. Roaring laughter scares the birds from their sanctuary. They circle overhead, watching vegetables sprout from the ground. Their own addition. Curious beaks drop seeds around the property.

Thick stems drop tomatoes, berries, and herbs into their yard. The property grows.

Small, wide eyes reflect two adults running through an oversized garden. This little girl stands between thick stems, hidden among their shadow. Thin cuts paint angry lines across her hands. She hides the worst of them in the empty shell of her companion. A plush rabbit.

Dirt cakes its remaining ear to its body. Time has worn its color to a dull gray. The plushie was left on Traveler’s Road, just like her.

Mirabel spots the scrawny child first, holding a matted clump of fur. Wobbly steps carry her across the border between darkness and light. Closer to the laughter.

Calloused hands catch her when she stumbles. “Just a little further,” Mateo coos. He carries her to a small bedroom made by his own hands. A creaky bed and a matted rug welcome her inside. Art covers the walls. Scenes of a sunset and stars. Rainbows. Rain.

The girl’s eyes are as wide as saucers as Mirabel treats her cuts. She barely moves...barely breathes. The clump of fur in her hand marks its spot on the bed with a circle of dirt. 

Mirabel reaches to move it, and freezes. Faded eyes, ruined by a thousand determined travelers, watch the woman treat the girl. It’s there when stubby fingers stop fisting a worn hemline. When the bedroom fills with things Mateo promises are hers. When Mirabel plucks cotton and fills the rabbit’s stomach back to plump. They clean its cuts. It’s washed and dried.

Others see the house growing over the umbrella of petals. They adjust their path. Travelers arrive on their doorstep, with hollow cheeks and glazed eyes. Birds chirp. Spiraling plants, weighed down by pumpkins and squash, lean over a sturdy fence. Sweet scents of honey flit past with a buzz.

Two words pass the traveler’s lips when they hear laughter and catch glimpses of a grinning child through the window. They speak through trembling lips. Relieved tears.

“…the billboard…”

Houses are created from stems and mud. Homes are built when disbelieving eyes open the door. Breadcrumbs of their past are hammered into their future. Neighborhoods blossom. A constant stream of people arrive…

…a teary-eyed couple searching for their child…           

…families that bend low to pray over their floorboards…

           …a copper-haired man that steals fleeting glances of Mirabel…

The next house Mateo builds is for them, and their daughter.

He strolls past their house on the way to his own. Dark clouds are rolling in, and rain has started to blur the stars. Tonight, most will hide indoors, thinking it a bleak night. But Mateo closes his eyes and raises his face to the heavens. There are no screeching tires or mechanical tracks. No looping pavement. No forgotten family.

He appreciates the moment, listening to quick footsteps dart around the garden. A little silhouette lifts their chin and calls, “Papi?”

“Yes, mi amor?”

Stubby fingers wrap around his. “Can I light the sign tonight?”

He nods, leading the raven-haired girl to the towering sign of their own creation. A billboard.

Traveler’s Paradise: Here and Now