Home Again

I’ve become so immersed in my habitual existence I sometimes forget where I am. Sitting on the platform stranded between express and the promised follower train, I was too tired to stand or to even hold my head. The man next to me grapples at English, I stare at him as he says words I wish I understood. “Express…Loyola,” I say and he nods and sits next to me. He pulls his cap to conceal his eyes and we sit surrounded by commuters and overly anxious teenagers.

I rest my head on my artbox containing my soiled brushes as the nightlights flicker on overhead. The breeze from the lake filters in viciously and whips at my hair, kissing my exposed skin. My ears listen for the familiar rattle for the ride north but all I hear is pointless chatter so I crawl back inside. Closing my eyes I only long for one thing I can never have again.

I want to be held in my father’s arms, my head cradled between his neck and shoulder. I doze as the swaying and bobbing of his steps drift me through a threatening crowd. The commotion and anxiety only ease me further as I know I am safe and loved in this effortlessly caring embrace. There is no guilt and no agenda, no motives to these actions, we are just going home.

I am so moved by this loss I have to sit up to allow the wind to tease my eyes, to prevent the tears from forming further. I realize how tense I am, how tired my muscles are from this but there is no release. Upon deeper thought I realize this apprehension always wades through my muscles as soon as I close the door behind me. I haven’t felt safe in so long, maybe that is why I long for my sheets and pillow which hold me and whisper calming nightmares.

The train arrives and I shuffle on. I’m on the way back to the place I’m trying to call home.

(P.S. Note to self: clean camera lens...it is filthy)