It was early evening on a weekday — the time of afternoon where the sun begins to make a descent to slumber but is not quite ready just yet, but entertains the idea on the blanket of a dirty windshield as you squint through sunglasses and splash artificial rain to smear the pollen and dirt just enough to gain some summer visibility. As the wipers slow to a halt, it is there that you notice him for the first time.
As you travel the curvy, narrow road to home; the kind of road that people travel on Sundays to get out of the house for a few hours or rather become incredibly lost as out of towners, you glance through the smudged glass as your eyes wonder high up on a hill, where he sits seemingly unnoticed. He is middle aged, alone, resting on the hood of a striking farm truck from decades past; it proudly yet tirelessly sporting an original olive green paint job with splotches of patina that threaten to reveal her true age.
The truck rests still on that grassy knoll, where the emerald hue of blades of weeds and dandelions sprout in and around the aged tires, where the sun bounces off of the headlights in a kaleidoscope of color, and there he sits.
He seems to notice not the sun setting amidst the lush mountain tops, commanding attention at the height of the sky that turns from blue, to an incredible mix of purples and deep pinks and bold orange. His hand moves only to bat away in frustration what he most likely assumes to be flies or gnats, but from what I saw on the side of the road, they were brilliant monarch butterflies, dancing around and around his head again to gather praise and attention.
His head is bowed and his eyes are lowered as the evening fades to dusk, as he scrolls and continues to scroll the device resting in his rough and stone cold hands. The only light he views is from a small screen, the scenery he enjoys is a beach scene from the life of a total stranger. He is in paradise, on a country road at the ends of the earth, the Garden of Eden in East Tennessee, and all he can taste is the Apple in his hand.
Raise your eyes, world. The earth and all the beauty it contains is still ever-present. What moments are we missing that may never cross our paths again? When were heart pounding thunderstorms, catching fireflies in the backyard, and deep, meaningful conversation replaced with artificial, filtered responses on a touch screen? Touch the grass. Touch the hand of your neighbor mourning the life she had with her husband. Touch the ice cold bottle of water you hand to a stranger mowing the graveyard you pass on the way home. Raise your eyes, world. And see what I saw on the side of the road. Life is passing you by.
