She could already feel the cushion beneath her weight.
The car sped, following its familiar travels, winding north then west and north again, as if of its own volition, her hands on the wheel just some form of balance as she sat, riding along.
The trip home. Always such clarity, on this route.
More than the place called by its name, the house was her. Protector; solace. Nobody had given it, and nobody could take it away. She had earned every inch. Moreover, having a place to go meant, increasingly, the place to be.
No matter that three decades of accumulated life had found a depository. She was a keeper, not a dispensary; every detail of her life experience had found some representation within its walls. Embodied sentiment; symbolic memory. Lost spirits were welcome, and likely took up residence while she slept.
He was all about property ownership and maintenance. Investing, then selling; every four years or so, he’d moved on, taking his profits. And, the place he currently called his own both stood to generate plenty and required every minute of his self imposed standards to keep up.
If he had a soul, he kept it to himself. Lawn; garden; dogs; hens. Beverage. These were friends, family, and mistress enough.
Into the occasional cracks of empty time she’d found herself, inserted.
Convenient entertainment. Easily displaced.
The fog would lift, by morning. Only two miles remained. The lost spirits beckoned her to her own bed, in the place where she could always go, with the promise of sleep at the center of self love.
All this she knew, on the road home.
© 8/3/19 Ruth Ann Scanzillo. All rights those of the author, whose story it is and whose name appears above this line. Thank you for respecting original material.