going home

those old stories.

chainsaws, cedar bark and woodchip on orthopedic chair rests. summertime heat. wandering empty streets on friday and saturday nights. running through Sherlock’s field for kicks; lost in a forest of cornstalks. saved, somehow, by the immense Canadian flag at the husky. cars idling, racing to the edge of town and back again. those old stories are waiting for me.

house parties. a hill of shoes to climb over. a girl named cheryl borrowed a pair of my shoes and forgot to give them back. brown leather flats. i followed my shoes all over town that summer on the party circuit, too shy to ask for them back. those old stories are summer stories, separate from the bite of winter in a poor mill town in the 70s and 80s, the seasonal unemployment and year-round drinking.

it’s a strange thing, going home, when no one lives there anymore. when’s the last time you went home?