The Long Way Home

“the prodigal son”—what a cliché, he thought,

but he knew better when he drove into Skylar

with its rundown shacks along a narrow road,

leading into the small-time suburbia he had

escaped over five years ago, without visiting.

Dad was gone (seven years, if he recalled right),

and Mom was her own hornet’s nest of problems

while Bobby still worked at the Shell down the street

(some things would never, ever change, it seemed).

but he was the son who had “made it” with a job

stuck out in the city with its noise and pollution,

all the high-end bars and their cozy crowds,

and (of course) the girl he had to leave behind.

when Mom opened the door, she just stood,

staring, before she shook her mane and tipped

down to pick up a half-empty pint of vodka

(yes, some things never changed).

while he had no words for her, she still let

him walk through the door and into the house,

though he felt like a trespasser of sorts,

a stranger come calling to stir trouble.

his childhood room had been a sanctuary

for eighteen years that felt like hell,

especially with all the screaming and

the drinking and the misery-making.

and he wouldn’t regret or feel guilt

for doing what he had to save himself,

all the time he had spent plotting so many

ways just to leave a town behind.

the only thing that hadn’t changed

was the ripped-up recliner in the corner,

the one last vestige of a father he had

hoped he would never miss, no matter what.

but he teared up upon seeing the chair,

white patches yellowed from age,

and suddenly he was five years old again,

sitting on Dad’s lap and laughing.

those days were long gone (so far away),

but he still ran a hand over the fabric,

thinking back to days that were easy,

back before life became a struggle.

“the prodigal son”—maybe it did fit,

but all he could think was how time was

such a strange thing, hardly a friend

but maybe not an enemy either.