to Dust

The road lay long ahead, the skies darkening, twilight spreading its pale blanket over the fields, the woods, the little towns. My father and I rarely get alone time, but on that road we had a few hours, a short moment outside the real world. He didn't turn on the radio. We spoke of the life ahead, of what would become of us when we grew up.

We both have trouble doing it right.

Later, at home, catching up on the piles of dishes that did not magically take care of themselves while I was away, it hit me. It struck me straight in the gut, started in the dark depths and crawled vilely through my tissues.

The truth is, I miss New York so much it hurts. I miss its noisy, dirty streets, its toil and struggle, I miss the person it lets me be. I miss my home. I miss me.

My father heard those words, though they weren't properly spoken. His eyes looked at me sadly, even as he stared at the road ahead. I go to sleep on time. Tomorrow is Monday, again.