the final highway

The highway stretched, barren and gray. 
An old man walked, his dog by his side. 
Both were gray, too, like the road. 
The sun was high, unforgiving. 
Their shadows, short beneath them, were the only companions in the vastness.
The man’s boots hit the asphalt with purpose. 
Each step was a testament to years lived, battles fought, loves lost. 
The dog, loyal and worn, padded silently alongside. 
Their pace was steady, a rhythm honed by countless journeys together.
They walked without destination. 
The highway was simply a path, one that led through the present and into the unknown. 
The man knew this road. It was like the lines on his face, deep and inevitable. 
The dog knew it too, in the way that animals know things – with acceptance, without question.
The heat shimmered, a dance of light on the horizon. 
It was quiet, save for the sound of their movement. 
The man’s breath was even, but deep, as if savoring each one. 
The dog’s tongue lolled, a pink flag in the monotony of gray.
They had been walking since dawn. 
The man carried nothing but the weight of his years.
 The dog, a lifetime of loyalty. 
They were not escaping, nor were they headed anywhere. 
They were simply moving, because stillness was a luxury afforded to the young.
The man thought of death. 
It was a familiar thought, an old adversary. 
He saw it in the way the road ended in nothingness, 
in the way the dog’s steps had slowed over the years. 
But he was not afraid. 
Death was just another path, 
one he would walk with the same purpose he walked this highway.
The dog felt it too. 
The scent of the end was in the air, 
mixed with the smell of hot tar and the man’s familiar scent. 
But the dog was not troubled. 
There was comfort in the presence of the man, 
in the shared silence, 
in the unspoken understanding that they were nearing the end of their journey together.
As the day waned, the shadows grew longer, 
stretching out before them like a preview of the night to come.
The man and the dog did not quicken their pace. 
There was no need. 
Time, after all, was a construct of the living, 
and they had transcended it long ago.
The highway continued, relentless in its straightness. 
The man and the dog walked on, 
two gray figures against the vast canvas of the world. 
They were alone, but not lonely. 
Together, but each in their own solitude.
And when the sun dipped below the horizon, 
painting the sky with strokes of fire, the man stopped. 
He looked down at the dog, 
who looked back up at him. 
No words were spoken, for none were needed. 
They had reached the end, not of the road, 
but of something much greater.
They lay down together, 
the man and his dog, on the side of the highway. 
The stars appeared, one by one, 
until the sky was a tapestry of light. 
The man closed his eyes. 
The dog nestled close. 
And there, on that highway, 
they embraced the nearing of death, 
not with fear, 
but with a quiet dignity,
that only the old and wise can know.