On the Way Home

I could write about what exactly was on that spreadsheet, but I'm not exactly in a narrative writing mood. I think you understand.

Two funerals in two states in two different regions and I'm back at work. Tired. Last night I was driving home on I-20 when two lanes merged into one, and my speed slowed to zero and I began to cry. I was easily three hours from home and I didn't want to be there anymore. I wanted to be home, but I had to rely on myself and three more hours just seemed too damn long.

The people of my past, my childhood, are passing away. I look around me and see my brothers moving on with their own families to support them through these past couple of months (there have been deaths all summer long). They are creating new memories with their new families and I guess this is what they mean by circle of life. The people who lovingly raised us are dying, leaving them in turn to raise their own children and love their own wives and pay their own mortgages.

I can't help but feel a little stuck.

I don't have a family of my own to support me. I was alone in the car, alone by the coffin, and sleeping on the couch because the couples get the beds. I haven't yet created my own family; I wasn't moving on in the circle.

"You have me," offered Scott. His voice was far away as I sat out on the front porch of our family farm. He commented on hearing birds on my end of the line and it hit me that he and I don't get those sounds in the city. The other day I watched a squirrel through my office window for about ten minutes while trying to figure out why I was so fascinated with the creature. It was because I hadn't even seen one in months. All of a sudden, the city seemed foreign and strange with its orange glow at night, never really getting dark. It's a feature that I previously found comforting.

"I know," I sighed, trying to not hurt his feelings,"It's just not the same. Theirs is more... official with their spouses and houses. I mean, I had to come out here and do this alone."

"One day we'll have our spouses and houses too." He paused, "And by spouses, I mean you and me."

I forced a smile that I prayed he could somehow hear. But the sentiment didn't make me feel any less unstuck and out of place. To me, it sounded like an empty promise: one I've heard too many times before to count on. As much as I'm sure he was willing, I was the only one who could press through the additional three hours home. I was more than halfway, but I wasn't there yet. And not being where I should be--where I wanted to be--is jarring.