She sleeps like a child, with her hand tucked under her face, or her arms thrown overhead. I walked home last night along the main road, watched headlights tear into the dark. It has taken me years to return to this valley. To the familiar trees. To the rushing train.
My dogs were young when I lived here last. And me as well. Young and ill. Maybe I couldn’t remain in this valley and go on telling lies. Dress every morning in a costume. The disappointed bride. I wrote Red Audrey two streets over. Tested dialogue in the park to the south. Dreamed, incessantly, of girls.
Is it home because I have a family this time? Or home because I belong here? I waited until I was sure. That’s the strangest part. I waited for her. For myself. I waited until I was ready.