The house was bare. No more television. Couch was tossed out to the curb. Chairs stacked in the back of a pick-up truck. Soon they’d be gone too. Salvation Army or some charitable organization. He no longer had any belongings.
Placed a few pairs of underwear and shirts in a backpack. Wore the same shorts daily. Figured out West he wouldn’t need any long pants. His days of church going were over.
He left behind a home. A brick building he called a home. Had been there all his life. His mom and dad lived there. So did his grandparents. And with the stroke of a pen, it was gone. His property. His history.
It was the beginning of summertime. Night air was cool. The old man pulled his truck into rest areas along the interstates and stretched out in the back. Used a sweat shirt for a blanket.
Many nights the radio would put him to sleep. Jazz on some local public radio station. Playing songs he grew up with. Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Bill Evans to name a few. He would hum along.
And he drove all over the country. Colorado, California, Texas, North Dakota. He followed no maps. Just drove where ever the spirit lead him. And, that’s all he wanted. Just to drive and listen to jazz. This was his American dream.