The Drive Home

The sun has just barely set, rendering the sky a charcoal gray with streaks of gold-pink. Your form, black in the darkness, slouches in your seat. Your hands--red with cold or maybe anger--grip the wheel. The entire car stinks of old cotton candy. Your stomach, despite the sickeningly saccharine stench filling the air, rumbles with hunger. Suddenly you crave the pasta bakes your grandmother used to make for those family reunions on the Rhode Island shore.

Everything you pass prompts a memory you wish you could forget. The empty warehouse on your left. The glowing supermarket on your right. The deserted playground you can just make out in the distance. Somewhere behind you, you only now realize, was a used boat lot. Awkward first kisses; shaming yourself when the whole class caught on that you never even read the novel; walking in on your parents caressing each other; spitting out stale cereal that contained live ants; discovering that your childhood friend fell in love with you in high school; spotting your soccer coach naked at the public pool locker room. These images soar into your mind throughout the drive.

A song whose lyrics you seemed to have always instinctively known floats onto the airwaves. You cannot recall the artist, or even the title of the song, but can mouth every last word. The next traffic light you hit suddenly turns red and you screech to a halt as soon as the song ends. You jolt forward, pause, and breathe again. You hate the next song that plays, so you change the station, only to encounter commercial after commercial. You already own a mattress and no longer need S.A.T. tutoring.

The light flashes green and you go, but not because you relish the prospect of coming home and making yourself comfortable in your own little hole. You go because everyone else goes, and that's what seems right. Vaguely, you feel lost.

As if flown in from Saturn, a mangy creature suddenly scampers across the road. You swerve, still frighteningly close to the beast, but far enough from it to spare its slinking tail. Forging onward, you imagine the animal dead on the road, heart and intestines on display. You shudder, thinking you, too, may be crushed one day.

The next street marks your turn. Your flick on the signal and make a left. Houses that suddenly seem new bombard you on both sides. You never noticed that quaint porch or that elaborate chimney before. Slightly agape, you continue driving. When you see your house, it too appears strange. The shadows are too steep; the hedges too tall; the yard too cramped. You pull into the uneven driveway and put the car in park. Then you sigh, shake your head, and remove your keys from the ignition. Something still feels amiss when you step out of the car and close the door. You stare at the house with a furrowed brow, but gradually your wrinkles start to soften.

This is the place where you grew up.