Blistered

Waking up and the land is swathed in brown, in wet moss and thawing repose, but little flowers line the highway and you have almost arrived. Young students in white caps flood the streets and squares, the holiday supposedly celebrating spring but they all just want to get drunk in light jackets and make out behind the budless trees. You do not blame them. It begins to rain as you drag your heavy bag from the bus, but it is a kind rain, May rain, and the sun soon returns to restore hope to the hearts of the weary. You fall asleep with the blinds down, indulgent sleep in the middle of the day and you will pay for it come nightfall, but the phone calls line your silent phone and once you walk out the door it is impossible to go home. The sunburn begins to itch.

Just this morning I ran on the mountain rim along the dam, desert sun burning itself into my memory and giant vultures circling the remains of my visit. Now I sit in my own bed, in the quiet apartment and the flowers have all survived. They climb with newborn fervor along the windows, but everything else seems to have died a little. The name on the neighbor's door has changed. The hue on my skin has changed. Nothing ever feels the same in the homecoming and yet we have to carry on as we were, we have to keep climbing that mountain. I walked up the stairs --I've walked them a thousand times-- and all I could think was I should have just kept driving that highway and never looked back.

How do you feel about second chances?