The front door- final post

The scuff marks on my shoes are like a road map from New York to Colorado. I wiggle my toes and am relieved they still have feeling. I lift my hand to the door in a defensive fist- 

but lower it again.

I turn around to look back at the lawn. The grass looks tired, but the bushes are trimmed to perfection. There’s little cement stones with the handprints of loved ones leading up to a rusted bird bath. I can picture the movement of dogs and cousins across the lawn.

I pull my hair behind my ear and run my nervous fingers through the knots a few times to be sure a piece hadn’t escaped. Then, my fist, slightly less defensive, tapped on the door like a ball bouncing across the ground.

I intertwined my fingers behind my back and felt the sweat gather on my palms. Then, I heard a ferocious bark that was met with an overly confident dachshund. I was so enamored with the dog I hadn’t even notice the man who stood in the shadow calling for his wife. He was frozen by shock, but his wife moved swiftly to the door like the house was on fire.

Before I could rehearse my explanation, I felt her arms around my shoulders and felt her tears meet my hot skin. She smelled so much like the gingerbread I often dreamed about when my next meal seemed far away. 

The next few hours passed like a dream. The steam of the shower, the fuzz of the blanket, the salt from the green beans. I know they wanted answers, but for now they were content with my presence.

I wish I could tell them I made it big, I was married, I had four children. I wish I could tell them I was right for leaving so many years ago. 

But, the reality was much better than that. In losing my way for the person I thought I loved, I found myself. The past few weeks I saw myself reach peaks after falling into valleys.

I no longer felt like I owed him anything, and I no longer felt like I had to prove to myself that my decision so many years ago was right. 

We make mistakes, but we can always find our way home.