November

A town can hold such a place in one’s life for years, and suddenly morph into a different significance, within the bat of an eye. As a child I remember the sleepy streets, lined with neat mounds of snow. The hills looked friendlier, echoing of the mischievous stories from my father’s youth. The stale smell of cigarettes hung in my grandfather’s trailer like thick drapes, following him wherever he went. I knew my parents didn’t want me close to the smoke, but I breathed in deep.

Age is a funny thing, because it starts out fast, then slow and fast again. My family looked so tired in the yellow light of the funeral home. Tired but dedicated to welcoming me with embraces, and warmth. We were, after all, given a task by being given each other. As we drove down the road, I couldn’t look away from the white hills, wondering what they could be hiding. Maybe stories, maybe bears, maybe nothing. I thought to myself that I might like to stay a while. Maybe one day, I’ll come back and stay a while.