Construction

Try to see everything through the lens of beauty. It makes the ugly experiences less so when you are forced to deal with them.

The overweight construction worker, his face dusty and haggard. The five o'clock shadow on his square jaw guarding the burden of fatigue from ever leaving. His work boots seem permanently laced to his feet with the cement that he uses each day. Yes the wrinkles in his hands and eyes go down all seven layers of skin. If you count them you'll know how old he is, like the rings of a tree. He is beautiful.

The white dotted line, tracing the highway. It looks the way the inside of your lips taste after 6 hours in the same car, leathery and traveled. That fractured line has seen more than all the stars because it's closer to the action. It has seen the mountains, and then has not seen the mountains as they were replaced by interstates. The line never makes a sound; it was never one for casual talk. The line is beautiful.

Cow country. Each house mirrors the 1800's. Not a roof shingle to be found. The radio dial is fiddled with, but all that can be found is country music and lectures about finding Jesus. Both of these are too awkward to fill the already awkward silence in this vehicle. There are overgrown gardens and horses and cattle who are grazing, always grazing despite the brown splotches of grass that had long since had the edible vegetation plucked out of them. But the cows have their noses to the ground anyway, like it's their dead end job to provide for their family of organs. Behind the houses are sprawls of mountains. As many trees as are people on the earth fill this one range. Harmonious and thriving, trying in earnest to reach the unending sky. "Who would want to live here?" an impertinent voice calls out to the squalor. Who wouldn't, I think. Those cows are so beautiful.

I relish in his orange reflective vest. I wish I could wear a vest that warned people to stay away from the mess I was making. I lust for the cows- who wouldn't want to live there. I envy that line. I envy the layers of dirt covering it; one for each broken family who's wheels run over it because the kids are yelling too loud for Dad to pay attention to lines.

Have I been spending too much time on 495? It's so good to be home.