Coming Home

It’s dark, but I drive down the middle of the old paved road anyway. Even with my headlights flipped to bright I can’t see much in front of me. But it’s ok, because I’ve driven this road hundreds of times. The night is always black on this road, maybe because there are no man-made lights to illuminate the countryside.

I slow my car as I approach my turn onto the dirt road. The same holes and dips bounce me in my seat, but I don't slow down for them. I know where they are because the multiple attempts to fill them in with sand never worked.

The moon is not quite full tonight, but it still casts a gentle glow over the fields farmed by my father and grandfather and great-grandfather. The smell of freshly-cut alfalfa seeps into my car. My radio plays music, but the silence of the peaceful country night surrounds me and drowns out the sound.

My car travels the final stretch of road, past the old weathered trees on each side, past the gray mailbox, and beside the freshly cut grass. The driveway curves around the large ancient house, the home I knew for so many years. Nothing has changed, minus the overgrown bushes that used to sit out front. The porch light is on, and the lights from inside illuminate the familiar rooms I grew up in. They shine brightly, and I can see that the furniture remains in the same arrangement its had for years.

I park my car and it falls silent, clicking gently as it cools. The sound of singing crickets and frogs in unanimous chorus fills the night air, surrounding me a loudly as the peaceful silence did only a few moments ago. I step out onto the sand of the driveway and take in the smells of the mowed grass and oil-soaked dust from the shed several yards away. The sky is full of bright shining stars. As I gaze at them, one shoots across the night, ever so quickly, yet leaving behind the tiniest trail of light. The night is perfect, and I am surrounded by everything familiar.

I am home.