Some of those trips we took seemed endless; it was probably the same for you. My brother and I fought viciously and relentlessly in the backseat of that old Bonneville. He sat too close to me, I couldn't bear the wet slurping sound of his gum chewing, and our bare legs stuck to the naugahyde seats. Dad never did pull the car over, and I was wrong; you could, indeed, smack me from the front seat.
Whether it's true, or whether my memory has painted things in terms of fevered dreams, the last leg was always in darkness. My head heavy and thick, eyes gritty, and skin feeling scraped and somehow raw, I would ask "how far?" and you would point out the landmarks and signs along the way. The water tower, with bulbous belly, spindly legs and solitary blinking red eye. The barn, with slatted stars in its sides, crumbling by day and ethereal by night. The last sign on the overpass, the final exit, a slender ribbon of asphalt which would finally lead to our door.
Now I am leaning my head against the cool glass, and the man sitting next to me is snoring in a wet, bubbly manner which sets my teeth on edge. I did not want to make this trip, Mom. It has been too long, and I'm afraid it has taken too much out of me this time. I just want to lay my head on a cool pillow in the room that you have kept for me all of these years.
Please help me, and point out the signposts for me one last time.
I am on my way home.
*****
(A re-post of an old piece. I've left it up to the reader to decide what sort of journey the narrator is returning from. Feel free to leave your imaginings in the comment section.)
Whether it's true, or whether my memory has painted things in terms of fevered dreams, the last leg was always in darkness. My head heavy and thick, eyes gritty, and skin feeling scraped and somehow raw, I would ask "how far?" and you would point out the landmarks and signs along the way. The water tower, with bulbous belly, spindly legs and solitary blinking red eye. The barn, with slatted stars in its sides, crumbling by day and ethereal by night. The last sign on the overpass, the final exit, a slender ribbon of asphalt which would finally lead to our door.
Now I am leaning my head against the cool glass, and the man sitting next to me is snoring in a wet, bubbly manner which sets my teeth on edge. I did not want to make this trip, Mom. It has been too long, and I'm afraid it has taken too much out of me this time. I just want to lay my head on a cool pillow in the room that you have kept for me all of these years.
Please help me, and point out the signposts for me one last time.
I am on my way home.
*****
(A re-post of an old piece. I've left it up to the reader to decide what sort of journey the narrator is returning from. Feel free to leave your imaginings in the comment section.)
Sounds like a love gone very, very bad. Draining the soul, and as much as you wanted to be AWAY, in your own life, it was just too, too much. (you being character "you"). Great FF Li
ReplyDeletenice writing. I like how you left this open-ended. I'm a fiction writer as well, and glad to have found you via the Challenge. New follower.
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