Home and Away
Leaving didn't feel right.
Like a cinder block on the chest, heavy, a dead weight.
Goodbyes were said, promises of status updates, calls with questions. Getting out of town was filled with error, gas pumps that didn't work, wrong turns on highway exits you've taken your entire driving life.
You don't exceed the speed limit, there's nothing pressing at "home." Laundry, maybe, pick at dinner you empty from cans.
Home doesn't feel right. It's your stuff, but there's an edge you can't shake.
Updates given, voicemail and texts, and then you're left with nothing. The ebb and flow of a quiet house, dog tags jingle down the hall, a siren outside.
Tired, you slip into bed, between your favorite flannel sheets that smell so familiar and sleep won't come. The clock gets eyed, the ceiling. Even meditation, or what you think is meditation, doesn't work. Worry clouds everything.
You're home, but really, you're not. You accept that, for the time being, your life is on hold. His is more important.
And you try and adjust.
Like a cinder block on the chest, heavy, a dead weight.
Goodbyes were said, promises of status updates, calls with questions. Getting out of town was filled with error, gas pumps that didn't work, wrong turns on highway exits you've taken your entire driving life.
You don't exceed the speed limit, there's nothing pressing at "home." Laundry, maybe, pick at dinner you empty from cans.
Home doesn't feel right. It's your stuff, but there's an edge you can't shake.
Updates given, voicemail and texts, and then you're left with nothing. The ebb and flow of a quiet house, dog tags jingle down the hall, a siren outside.
Tired, you slip into bed, between your favorite flannel sheets that smell so familiar and sleep won't come. The clock gets eyed, the ceiling. Even meditation, or what you think is meditation, doesn't work. Worry clouds everything.
You're home, but really, you're not. You accept that, for the time being, your life is on hold. His is more important.
And you try and adjust.
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