I lay under a freeway overpass. Somewhere near the junction of Highway 60 North and I90, in the New Mexico desert, in my Coleman sleeping bag.
My blue luggage with the silver lining; an old seaman’s chest with everything on this earth that I held temporary ownership over next to me.
I had given up hitchhiking after the sun had gone down, better not to do at night, especially alone.
A vacuous night, inside and out, strange warm air moving around me, air I had never felt before. Whispering's of Mexicans, Indians and Cowboys, and a blackness and volume of shimmering depth of stars of which I had yet to know.
The odd semi-truck came and went. Roaring past, whooshing into the northern darkness, a blur of red taillights.
Mike and his 1965 Chevy, eastbound somewhere, without me.
I had no money, food or water. It was me and the desert, and the hope of strangers to help me.
Why I remember this moment in my life I have no idea, or why any of us remember certain moments that seem of little importance now that we reflect on them.
Perhaps in the larger universe they have a symbolic meaning that we will understand someday. Maybe not.