Driving a weeding truck, traversing 360 kilometers, building a bonfire in the field at night, roasting a liver sausage for dinner, meeting a girl who ran away from home, and telling a story about a bundle of firewood. Sometimes I meet a middle-aged woman who always bumps into a deer and watch her go crazy. The road left in the middle of the road is a hearty lunch, and even the animals in the fields drool. Sometimes the lawnmower breaks down, someone kindly takes it in, repairs the engine, and stumbles to start the lawnmower again.
But most of the time, it's a long journey alone, watching the stars and crossing the Mississippi alone. Tell old people stories of past wars in pubs, share insights with cyclists, and tell priests about your younger brother by the cemetery.
Six weeks, maybe more, when exhausted and feeling powerless, finally came to my brother, encouraged by another old man.
I was on crutches, he was holding on to the shelf, we stumbled to meet, reconciled, and the moment when our eyes met again was self-evident. Seventy-three years old is just a number. How many traumas have I suffered along the way, after a long journey, I have reconciled with everyone, with myself, one by one.
360 kilometers, beautiful scenery all the way.
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