mailbox

it would be one of my almost ordinary days. there would be me , wearing my most comfortable shirt and jeans. one of my not so busy days. i would just be sitting on the front porch swing, slowly moving with the hanging seat, no room for rush. no, never on this day!
i would be drinking iced tea, reading a novel perhaps, which i would put down at the sound of that truck.
and there he would be in his good old harry that drove him through life's tiring journey. there he would be, my robert kincaid. as he''ll approach my mailbox, it will read "leslie tayao". just me. just my name. never a "richard johnson" or any other name who doesn't know how to drink brandy with me.
he would ask me for directions to that place he so long wanted to go to. and i would gladly show him the way. and we will go and travel.
we would drink brandy on balconies in Mombasa, or maybe watch dhows from Arabia run up their sails in the first wind of morning. he'll show me the lion country and an old French city on the Bay of Bengal where he'll bring me to that wonderful rooftop restaurant. but i would not ask for much. i'll be glad to just hand him his camera as he takes picture of the wonders of life. or maybe if he gets tired of the road, we'll just set up a shop somewhere or just whatever it takes to keep us going.
at the moment that he would ask me to go with him, i will go. because i have waited for this moment. made sure that i would not be tied with the realness of the responsibility of the county. because i believe in that same thing he believes in. that in a universe of ambiguity, this kind of certainty comes only once and never again, no matter how many lifetimes we will live. and after sometime, maybe, just maybe, we can ask a waller to write our story.