Settlers
Sean Moore
Conestoga wagon. All covered up. Spokes are brand new, shiny – couldn’t afford the full set of wheels. Axle’s not in the best shape, had to get it used. But hitch it up to a pair of ox, and she’ll go just fine. Not the best oxen, mind you – but the oxen that’ll get the job done. It’s all a bit secondhand, thinking about it.
But this’ll do. This’ll do just fine.
It started with a dream.
Well, to be honest, it probably started with a nice date, maybe too much wine, and five seconds of forgetfulness on someone’s part, in the heat of the moment. But that’s probably rewinding the tape a little too far.
Anyway.
It started with a dream. The reasons for being here. The reason it all started. The reason this all started. It had to – no arrival is by chance. Every destination has an embarkation – and for this life, this present, this now, a dream was it.
Prairie schooner. She’s all full up. Thought of everything, planned for everything. For the winter, for the stretches of road where there are no supplies, for the dangers. For the disasters. Even prepared for the tragedies. Mentally at least. Hopefully, at least.
But this’ll do. This’ll do just fine.
How did it start? How does it always start? Sunday cartoons and too much sugar in the cereal. But maybe that’s too harsh.
Instead, maybe it was a wild imagination and not enough adult supervision. Just time. Time for that mind to expand. Time not to wonder what’s in the way, but time to wonder why it’s even there. Time to think. About anything, about nothing. Time to dream about what could be, not know what was, is and always will.
And maybe those cartoons helped a little.
Wonder how they laughed. Not right away of course – never right away – but after, when it’s polite to do so. An inventor – no, what was that? A flying motorcycle inventor! Never mind the intractable engineering. Just the audacity to suggest those two things should go together.
Wonder how they laughed. Did they even laugh? Would they even listen? Do they even know? Were they ever told?
If they were, oh how it would’ve ended! Not right away, of course – no never right away – but after, when it’s polite to do so. When it’s polite to say that dreams are just that. There’s nothing to do about them then to wake up, and realize that they aren’t real.
But maybe that’s being too harsh.
Been dreaming about this for a long time now. About that coast. About that destiny that no one else controls. Been dreaming about the future, a future, every future. Any future. Well, not any future. But a chosen future. Not the best future.
But this’ll do. This’ll do just fine.
Wake up. That dream, any dream – it isn’t real.
Wake up – that’s how it ended. That falling feeling, that tumble that comes in the flicker of a moment between asleep and awake. That’s how it all got here, that’s how this place, this feeling this life became the destination. In that tumble, that flicker of a moment. Those twenty-two years of hearing what can’t be done. The falling-out, the realize, the acknowledgement. The waking up. The waking up to a reality that says dreams aren’t real. That dreams can’t be real. Who’s reality is that? It belongs to the ones who have woken up.
That heap of lumber, she’s all washed up. Can’t move much when the spokes are broken. Can’t move much when the axles split in two. Can’t move much when there isn’t an oxen left to pull her. That golden coast, that future, that destiny. It’s not just anywhere. It’s just past that horizon. But this is the end of the road. Guess it’s time to settle. It’s not any future. But it’s a chosen future. Not the chosen future.
But this’ll do. This’ll do just fine.
They called them settlers. They called them that because they stopped and said what they had was good enough.
They called them pioneers. They called them that because they never stopped finding the next frontier.