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August 01, 2022

Ashland Blues

By John Dorroh

Ashland Blues

Ashland, Kentucky, highways that look like any other roads, the occasional deer jumping out of the sun over our Civic, invisible prayers being answered like not knowing what message lies in the envelope that has sat on the kitchen table for three weeks. This is your trip, your last vacation ever, the only time you'll kiss rocks along the ancient roads, the topographical features sizing you up, making certain that what slips out of your lips is true. I never look at a map, never listen to a device to navigate the passageways to our destination. I let you take control of that; let you make calls, which alternate highway through the glorious October is best; which path will become cool friends that we will always remember. What will her house look like? Will it appear in a puff of smoke as we round some bear-clad mountain? Or will it reach out to us like a glove, beg for us to try it on? Whatever, I sure hope she's got some food.

Article © John Dorroh. All rights reserved.
Published on 2020-04-13
Image(s) are public domain.
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