Trip Home

I stand on my parents' deck, neck aching, looking at the stars as long as I can. Loons call across the lake.


From the bed on the porch we can see the starlight through bare trees.


The next morning, after everyone leaves, I go down to the lake. I hear running water, an outboard motor, wind chimes. A woodpecker knocks on a tree. Sunlight shines where water meets rocks, a bright outline.


I drive to Orono alone, as I did every week. At Connie's funeral, the minister's big gold cross reflects the light.


In Saco, where we will stay with my boyfriend's family. He and his brother and I go to Old Orchard Beach at night. The tide is way out. The waves are bright white and come in threes. They roll in from each side and connect in the middle before hitting the beach. When Luke and Trav walk toward the water, I see their reflections in the wet sand. The fair rides rise, inert and skeletal, behind us.


It rains on Sunday. The car breaks down in Connecticut. The windows fog while we wait for a tow truck. The car shakes when trucks pass.


My aunt and uncle rescue us. On the way to their house, a flooded bridge and standing water in the fields. My aunt has made blueberry pie.


Back in the city the next day, we return the rental car. Sunlight slants through new green leaves. Both places feel like home.