Heading home
It’s Friday and I’m heading home. I’ll drive on our slick back roads in just about an hour and pull into the driveway.
My father used to come home on Friday nights, after a long week away at work and sit, in his car in the driveway, engine still running, waiting. Maybe listening to the end of a jazz tune, maybe wondering if he was as welcome inside as he wanted to be.
Sometimes he fell asleep out there. But eventally, he’d wake up and he’d stagger into the kitchen, smelling like medicine and vodka. He’d eat fried chicken, cut us with his questions, and make plans for pancakes in the morning. Tell us about his new composition. How the new tenor player was working out.
Every time I pull into my driveway, I always notice how long it takes me to come into the house. It’s that final distance home, where your love shows its pace, that matters most.
