He used to walk around downtown. Had tattoos and scars on his face. Greasy hair slicked back. Some of it gray, some of it black. He went through the streets with a pole in his hand made of wood. An old thick oak branch he’d found after a storm in the park where he slept. Carved a heart into it with initials, D.C. and K.L. painted in red. The colors were beginning to fade.

We forget things, he said once. We’re in constant need of reminders. Pictures, letters, songs that run through our heads. Old clothes. A sweater she got you for Christmas. a pair of boots strapped together with silver duct tape. Hold onto these things, he said. Don’t lose them.

The vagabond carried these items around in a green Army bag. Had medals and badges from his days as an Eagle Scout as well. Old memories of swimming a mile across a river in Texas to earn a badge. Saving a life with the CPR he’d learned. Various knots with rope he had tied. Items he held in his hands and concentrated on, meditated. 

Some men have houses and families. Wives and kids. Sports cars and sail boats. He just had memories. And that was OK with him. 

At one time, he had a wife. They lived up in Alaska. Used to hunt for food. Fish in the summertime.

He went out for a pack of cigarettes one night. Passsd the liquor store where he usually stopped for his bottle of Wild Turkey and smokes. But this night, he did not go in. He kept walking on the dirt roads.  He walked all night till he crossed the Canadian border. Looked around at the lights and the duty- free shop. Saw men on horses roaming around the place. Sun was coming up. Rain began to fall; glistening on the pavement. The black top shined. Amongst the oil and rain, he saw an image. It was a reflection of himself. He had a beard and mustache, all salt and pepper. His eyes were clear; no red. He felt at peace. The road was his home. And, some go a lifetime without.