A thought begins to visit me, new but familiar in its roots. It reaches down into the place that sings for home, not knowing the word, let alone the place. I call it a thought, not an idea, not a plan, because it’s only in unreality that it can live.
It goes like this: I get in the car, and I’ve forgotten nothing. Henry is beside me, uncharacteristically solemn. He’s looking right at me with a knowingness, like he had been playing dog all along. A thankless gift just for me. We drive on together, out the court, out the street, and when we reach the main road, I don’t recoil at the feeling of light on my face through the windshield. The vision of the endless bumpers doesn’t bother me, and I notice only with indifference the strangers on the footpaths. The sky does not feel too large, the traffic lights too slow. All I hear is the squeak of the steering wheel, the rubber on my shoes as I move from one pedal to another. The soft movement of Henry’s body when he lays down.
We drive north, though I’m tempted to say it’s east, because there, it seems, is where the call is coming from. We drive on, and on, through day, through night. North, and north, a straight road out and up. In my mind I can envision the road until a certain point, and then we go where we have not been. Car lights flicker on, smudge against the haze of the darkened sky. Rain falls, and stops. We go on until there is nothing but the soft line of hills, as constant as a hum. And still, we go. The car does not tire, the petrol does not empty, the road does not end. The sun greets us, right to left. The moon takes its place, and with it, the stars. We drive through seasons, through lifetimes, until I don’t know if it’s us that moves or the world beneath us.
I can’t see it yet, the place where we stop. How we decide to turn back. Because for me, this is how I’ve always done it. It is always the going, and never the coming back. And so how am I to know which I am doing now? I cannot tell how to trust myself in direction, in distance. Is it possible to go too far to turn back? To veer left, completely, find oneself in the midst of an unfamiliar that claims us?
I wonder how it would feel, after this long drive, to return to the common gravel I know. The sound of it under the tires, would it brush me anew? When I cross the threshold of the door, when I go down the stairs, when I lay back in my bed, would I find in myself a changed body? Would the lights be out, save for my bedside lamp, and from my window would I see the string of the outdoor lights, and marvel, again, like for the first time?
The thought of this newness frightens me, the potential for foreignness where the familiar should be. But I question if this would not be worse: to return and find nothing changed at all. The fridge half-full, the tv on, the laundry unwashed. Henry’s gaze faded, looking to the bone, to the opening of a door, to my face with the glance of a dog. With no distance having taken me, least of all, from myself.
Though here I don’t need to worry, because look. It was just a thought, after all.
I enjoyed this piece, the ache for newness, not an escape but a longing to see the world beyond "home". These lines are my favorite:
"We drive through seasons, through lifetimes, until I don’t know if it’s us that moves or the world beneath us."
You have such a stunning, distinct writing style!! It‘s incredibly poetic and artsy, this reads like a renowed classic! Beautiful piece, and so emotional