Rest Stop, by Celeste Budwit-Hunter

Rest Stop, photography by Melody Locke (USA) 2022

Rest Stop

I can smell the gasoline and motor oil, feel the grime on surfaces in the restroom.
The man – young once, now long dead – whose place this is, his pride and joy,
with the quiet ambition of having good work, a business of one’s own – 
appreciated customers but was glad to see them leave, glad to have his thoughts to himself once again.
Long minutes when his mind can wander. He steps outside for fresh air and to contemplate his lost opportunities.
He wasn’t in it for the money. It was something he could do, is all, and show others he was making something of himself.
The quiet hours. Counting the change in the register, opening it again just to hear the bell.
This road was the place to be back then. Shiny people from out of town, bounding out of shiny cars, graced the threshold and were gone.
When the interstate came through, this road became a well-kept secret, the gasoline in underground tanks never to be burned on the road.
He stays outside. No reason to go back in.

Celeste Budwit-Hunter

This poem first appeared on the photographer Melody Locke's blog.
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Celeste Budwit-Hunter works for Johnson Space Center in Houston, Texas. Surviving a rare cancer leads her to celebrate daily through writing, photography, and walks in the woods. Her writing has been published by Equinox Journal, Synkroniciti, and Sudden Flash, among other publications.