The Long Way Around

10:00 AM: Your alarm goes off. Remember setting it last night in a fit of determination. You will not wake up at noon today. Hit snooze. Roll over. Take a minute to orient yourself.

Baby blue walls, crayon-stained desk in the corner, tree branches tapping at the window. Your childhood bedroom. You’re still not used to waking up here. 

10:09 AM: The alarm again, the hollow jingle a relic from your life in the city. Your life before. Don’t hit snooze again.

Pull yourself out of bed. Applaud yourself for this accomplishment. 

12:30 PM: Go to the park down the street, and sit away from the family playing in the grass. Observe them. A pair of grandparents blowing bubbles with two little girls. Silently hope that they have observed you, too.

The younger girl will eventually approach you, breaching the six-foot barrier. Smile beneath a patterned facemask. The girl’s grandmother will say, cheerily, “You’re too close to the lady on the bench.” It will strike you as odd that “the lady” is you. 

3:00 PM: Ask your younger brother for the keys to the red Corolla you drove in high school. Raise the driver’s seat and adjust the mirrors. The car smells different than you remember. Like weed and whatever fruity shit your brother sprayed to cover up the weed. Push through the queasy sensation. Turn the radio to that station you used to like: 92.5 XTU, Philly’s Country Station. 

Turn out of the driveway toward the main road. Ignore the impulse to glance at the passenger seat. The singer on the radio says that you are his grand prize. He wants to take you on a midnight tractor ride and raise babies with you someday. You resent the lyrics but don’t change the station. 

Keep driving. You recognize the town you grew up in, and the neighboring town, and the town past that. Check to see whether there’s enough gas that your brother won’t notice if you don’t fill up the tank. You recognize streets you haven’t visited in years. Take the turns that feel most familiar. Visualize the next intersection before you approach it. Let the car take you to the stables, where you used to love a horse named Dakota. He has probably died.

Internalize this. See if you can feel grief. Muster only pale disappointment, a weak approximation of what you imagine grief looks like.

The rain starts as you get out of the car. Warm droplets soak through your t-shirt and drip down your spine. You stand before the locked barn doors, listening to the restless whinnies of horses you do not know. 

Return to the car. Take the same roads back home. 

5:00 PM: Sit on the couch to watch a television show you’ve already seen. You forget scenes even as they occur. Pick the dead skin between your toes, under your fingernails, on your lips. It’s satisfying. Peel back the old, useless layers to reveal new, raw flesh. Stop when you start to bleed. 

7:00 PM: It is still light out. The air is stickier here. Your unwashed hair clings to the back of your neck. Walk in the middle of the street, beside the wide, empty sidewalks. When other pedestrians appear—often with dogs or children—pretend you are a ghost. No one can see you; you leave no trace.

In those moments, you might feel lonely, or you might feel relieved. Recently, you have had trouble deciphering your own emotions.

The park down the street looks different at dusk, like it did when you were fifteen and drunk and falling in love. Do not cross the field where you used to kiss slowly in the grass and look up at the stars. Take the long way around. 

When it starts to get dark, walk until nothing looks familiar. You don’t have to go far. Turn down a side street where nobody you know lives. Ignore the NO OUTLET sign. Follow the road as it winds and narrows, the street lamps dim and far apart. Resist the urge to flash a light. Trust your feet.

At the end of the road you find a baseball diamond, tucked between a row of trees and a creek. You can’t see the creek, but the closer you get, the louder it is. Caution tape blocks the bleachers, but there is no fence around the field. The nighttime sky is clear and bright, no sign of the earlier rain. Overgrown grass tickles your bare ankles as you approach home plate. Take deep breaths. Exhale a quiet hum. Then a grunt, louder, guttural. Kick up sand, and hear it crunch and thud beneath your rubber soles. Make more noise than you need to. You have discovered a place you’ve never been.

Published June 18th, 2020