The sky is blue, broken here and there by white clouds shielding us from the sun. The sun is dipping into the west, casting long Pine and Oak shadows across the lawn. Your brother is playing his electric guitar in his living room. I can hear it from here.
And you’re driving home.
You’re driving back home now, probably somewhere west of Houston. The slanting sun must be shining in your eyes. And you’re probably talking to Guinness in his crate in the back of the car. You have a couple hours ahead of you.
And I’m sitting here in the gloom of approaching evening in your mother’s dining room with flowers on the table wishing that you didn’t have to go.
When you drove down the driveway and disappeared down Oak Street, my heart broke. Like a sappy teenager, for heaven’s sake, I stood there waving goodbye with a pain in my chest. I stood there waving with a pain in my chest wishing I was in the car with you. Wishing I had hours of driving ahead of me and a slanting sun in my eyes. Wishing we were talking to the dog together.
And now that you’ve been gone for a while, it still hurts. And I still wish that I was there or that you were here.
Have a safe drive home.