They say you can't come home again, you know, and maybe they're right. But I'd been away too long. I'd blame it on work or life. It wasn't that. Maybe it was the booze or the drugs or maybe it was those blood splattered memories that gnawed their way into my brain.

Mama wanted me home for Christmas though and I was never good at tellin' Mama no. The bags were packed, gifts were wrapped and I watched my girl as she carefully placed and loaded the cargo for the ride. I'd asked her to stay...out of fear and I'd remitted the request out of Hope. It was Christmas after all.

Virginia to Kentucky isn't a long drive, not if you can stay outta your head and catch the beauty of an Appalachian winter as you go. But She could sense the tension as the key turned and the engine started its interstate sonata.

The roads were all to familiar, we'd stopped for coffee near Bristol and I'd put Jameson in my cup. I lit a joint and haphazardly passed it as I drove. We were mostly silent for the drive. Occasionally her fingertips would find my hand, clenched anxiously around the transmission lever. It was an awkward sort of comfort when I felt her touch.

Like my worlds were folding in around me and the collision was inevitable but bearable, as long as she was with me. I blocked it all out and focused on the road. We'd lost our way somehow down in Tennessee and the white lines seemed to break me down. We took the long way around and found Huntsville without a glitch. Less than a hundred miles and one right turn, I thought. I braced myself and finished my coffee. Fumbling for the dispo vape in the console. "It's gonna be alright," she said, "they love you "

We'd hit Winfield around noon and my anxiety was on high alert. I asked to stop for lunch at a mom and pop. I'd known the bartender my entire life and I knew she'd slip me some shots in a pinch. She smiled as we came in, a sudden recognition and her arms were around me. Yelling something about a bottle of jack. I shook my head and slid my eyes to the right and the bartender asked to see me out back. We smoked a blunt, downed a shot and looked around.

"I can't believe you're here," she said, "is that your girl?" I nodded without a word. "going home for Christmas," she asked and I nodded mid drawl. She'd rested her head on my shoulder for a moment and I ran my fingers through her hair. "I'm trying," I said.

It was thirty minutes to home. I watched my lives fade into one another. Childhood friends and selfies and it was all too much nostalgia to care about the next leg of the drive.

But we'd hit strunk ridge now and it was a good skip and a jump away from Go Time.

I saw the wreaths in the windows, the scattered flint of falling stars, the Christmas trees flickering through the dark. I felt the gravel of the driveway twist and turn beneath the tires. The crackle brought me back to some rooted youth and perfect soldiers, all in a line.

I'd stepped out first and the front door had opened. I didn't see who was there, I was looking to my left. To the magnolia trees of my youth. They stood just below the Douglas furs. I'd looked out at the pines, a thicket that had grown bare and unseen and then my mother's voice intruded. "We're glad you made it," she said. *Not even behind schedule." I'd smiled and embraced her and motioned to my right.

She'd looked over my companion, with judging eyes. The tattooed hands, the guitar scarred fingers, the slight hint of roots showing through her unnaturally blonde hair. They'd taken hands, in some makeshift shake and I'd lowered my head.

"There are people inside," Mama said, ", you'll take your luggage to your sister's room and she can have the guest room," a simple stammer, "your room, she can have your room."

I cut my eyes and touched her back. I watched her eyes take in my childhood home. This disastrous makeshift of my past. She clenched my hand, a tight yet fleeting grasp and she nodded at me without a word.