Driving Home

I’ve been staring at the red light for what seems like an eternity. It’s 9:20 p.m. and I’m tired. Every second that the light doesn’t change, I feel the energy draining from my body. It’s as if the light is feeding off of me, like it’ll stay red until I fall asleep at the wheel. I tighten my grip and run my fingers through my hair. I let it air-dry today and it’s wavy. I twirl it to pass the time, once, twice, and then – green! Finally! I step on the gas and make a left towards home.

I cross over the train tracks, not slowing quite enough so there’s a nice “tha-dunk-thunk” and a bounce but I don’t care. At the next light I take a soft right onto my street. I live in the city but this end of it is quiet, dark. Two cars are parked on the right, people inside, lights on inside. I wonder what they’re doing but I don’t pause to try and find out.

Two blocks more and I’m at the main intersection of my neighborhood. Another red light. The number 23 city bus zooms by me, all lit up. I can see one or two passengers on the inside, and I’m thankful to have my own car and be almost home. Across the intersection the number 7 bus waits at the red light as well. I live in the city but I’m not brave enough to ride the bus at night. Or, who am I kidding, during the day.

It’s green and I’m off again, only six blocks to home. Past the pawn shop and the Ace Hardware and the shop where I get my pants hemmed. I zoom past the creepy convenience store I call Apu’s (from the Simpson’s. It’s funny. SUE ME.) and see a woman walking wearily, slowly out with two full bags. I hope she doesn’t have far to go.

Two more blocks, there’s no one in front of me and I sail along, check the rear view, and there’s no one behind, just me, so I don’t have to worry about making anyone mad when I slow to pull in my driveway. It’s a relief to see my house lit up as I maneuver the car into its resting place. The two dark evergreens in my yard loom large and provide cover as I unload the groceries.

Wearily I make my way to the porch with as many plastic grocery bags wound around my wrists as I can handle. I climb the porch steps, excitedly, expectantly, and slide my key into the lock. Click, turn, push, and the door swings open, my husband smiles, and my son shouts, “Mama!” I feel some of the weariness lift off of my shoulders.

It’s good to be home.
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Photo by Erik Mallinson on Flickr