She pulls up next to the mailbox. They step out and flank the car, looking down the long gravel driveway at the past before them. What used to be a lonely house in the country is an anomaly flanked by subdivisions.
Red and green lights ring the windows. An inflatable Santa kneels next to a life-size Nativity scene.
“That Santa is new,” she says. “The tree looks the same from here.”
Visible through the opened-curtain window, the tree lights burn white and steady, illuminating dots of color that must be the ornaments she remembers.
“So this is the place,” he says. “You’ve told me so much about it…. It’s smaller than I imagined.”
It’s smaller than she remembers. Everything about it seems smaller than she remembers. Less hurtful. Less compelling.
The full moon glows through frozen mist. Trees bare of leaves frame the distant house. A recent storm has pounded ice into each irregularity of bark and branch.
“It’s been a long, hard way,” he says. “I’m proud of you for being able to come back.”
They get into the car. She touches his hand, warm in spite of the chill outside.
“I’m able,” she says, “but I’m not going. I don’t have to, anymore.” She gives the house a long last look and drives away toward home.
Mmm. Toward home. Love that ending. Thanks for this, Marian.