There and Back Again

Exit 64. To turn left would be a true paradise, the only place I feel complete respite. I dream of driving under the green canopy and walking through stiles into a sanctuary for birds. But I cannot go today. I turn right at the blinking light, toward town and empty houses. 17 Partridge Lane looks the same, half desolate-half cheery. How it always was; I am happy that is unchanged. The tree where I scraped my knee is as imposing, still. I linger, think of stopping, introducing myself and idiosyncrasies about the home, but I don't, I won't, I will wait another ten years for that awkward imposition. To grandmother's house I go. Right on Liberty, left on Glenwood. I never meant to like this house and am surprised by how much I miss her presence in it. The last decade of events we wished weren't happening, or happening elsewhere, or including those who couldn't be here any more with us, all have memories here now. I am so slow to learn that my expectations for my family will never be fulfilled, and I mind less, and accept them, as awful as can be, they are mine, and I am theirs. Josie's never coming back from the hospital. Never going home to this place, my last home in this town. Unless you count the cemetary stone at the beach, which I do not.