COLLEEN: I’m back. I’m here now. It’s late, but I need to sit with you. I need to talk to you, Dad. I’m sorry. I am. I don’t know where I thought I was going, like some little snotty-nosed kid running away. But you can’t blame me. I don’t want to see you like this. I don’t want to be your nurse. I don’t want to put you deeper and deeper into sleep until you stop breathing, so I left. I guess I trudged along about a half a mile, fists jammed in my pockets, shoulders up around my ears. Every step I pushed you, this house, and Wittenberg Road behind me, head down, fixated on the rhythm of my feet when it occurred to me that I could make out every crack, frost heave, make-shift tar-patched rut in the road, even the orange and green weave of my boot laces. I stopped. Had I walked all night, was it day? Had I walked time backwards? I was a kid again on my way to school, and a truck passes and it’s you coming back from Wittenberg Store with a cup of coffee for Ma and we wave…..
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- Written by: Dominique Cieri