Death to my Hometown

In search of comfort, all there is is death. He dies, slowly, but inevitably. I took the train out to the country, to see the town where she grew up. We drive the scenic route, see the worn little school where she asked a boy to be hers and the worn bigger school where no one wants to go any longer, but then neither did she. She shows me the room she tried rebelliously to claim in her youth and the mother she has since tried to leave behind. Her father grew up in this town, made his life in this town. Her mother came from the ends of the earth; this is what life makes of us. We drive across the water to the tiny cottage in the woods. When we each worked a 20-hour work week, she says, that was perfect. The next baby waits impatiently in the wings. The darkness claws at me and I long for my city street lights.

The well is deep; have you landed at the bottom yet? Are you scratching your fingers bloody against the brick, staring desperately at what must be up to see but the slightest sliver of light? Tomorrow I go to an office to pack up my things.

Tomorrow when you wake
I'll be on my way.