There's A Man in Black Up Ahead

The roads I travel stay clear of May 10, 2005 for most of the  year. Regardless of where I go or where I am, each spring my journey leads to the date I want to avoid. I can be a thousand miles from there and then I'm on that road again.

It's an old road. No one maintains it. The asphalt is pocked with potholes. The shoulders are crumbling and the lines have blurred to faint images of dividers that once served a purpose. Mile markers pass by the day; April 1, April 23, May 1, May 6, May 7, May 8, May 9. Speed of the journey is consistent until May 10, then all control is lost and the vehicle rockets to noon.

Twilight Zone has begun. The doors are locked and control is on auto pilot. Soon I will be able to see the man in black up ahead at the curve. He stands six feet tall and  just on the other side of midnight, May 9. His wide brimmed hat is pulled low to shade his eyes. A long black duster is his coat, a once white shirt buttoned to his neck, is tinged with life. He leans on an old fence by the right side of the road. He knows what's ahead for me and he waits. In his hand he holds a tarnished pocket watch, attached by a gold chain to his belt. It's flipped open. If the man had whiskers, they'd be as dirty gray as the hair straggling out from under the hat. There is no smile on his shaven face or satisfaction in his eyes. He just waits for me. He looks 75. When I pass, he will look at his watch, close it, put the watch in a pocket, push himself from the fence and walk away with his head bowed. It's dusk as I pass.