The Road Home

Charles straightened, stretching his back and letting out a brisk sigh. Craning his head upward, he rubbed his neck in deep circles. His memory of the last few days were like the mile markers streaking into dirty green across the windshield, blurred and patchy.

After the offer was made, he’d packed his things and gotten the rest of his business in order: Letters were written, gifts were bought; he had even remembered to change mailing addresses and cancel his classes. He’d even had a few meals with friends.

But on the road now, he didn’t know how to feel. Tinges of sadness and regret lingered; the imprints of hope and possibility too. There’d been pressure from parents, and from within, followed by waves of doubt and uncertainty. But their memories seemed to flutter over his mind only briefly, scattered quickly by the busyness. Perhaps he’d kept himself busy on purpose, to avoid his dense emotions. He couldn’t remember.

* * * * *

The hours passed, and Charles drove. His mind wandered slowly, from Houston to Los Angeles, and back. He remembered long roads like this, traveled with friends and broken only by forays into blue bonnet fields.

He wandered into memories of long, quiet streams - the soft trickling water, the steady sound of oars, the quiet conversations traded across canoes.

He startled at the memories of good jokes, of friends bent over in laughter, shaking so hard they couldn’t breathe.

Charles grinned softly at the memories, watching the people and events return slowly, one by one.

As the hours passed, Charles drove. Ahead, the sun was finishing its slow dive beneath the clouds. A distant windmill cut the dimming light into sprays of purple.

And as the light faded, Charles felt a small wave of anticipation well up within him. It came lightly, without warning or announcement; without defining moment or epiphany. It approached fragile and soft, like the purple rays draping the hills, moving as a light breeze against his heart.

Charles checked his mirrors and switched on his headlights. As another road sign approached, he swept his hair aside and squinted through his glasses. A wide smile spread across his face as he found the white letters, flashing brightly now against the fading light.

Houston: 326 miles.