Her car turned at the corner.
She hadn’t meant to turn,
but this path was etched in her mind,
a groove worn by time after time.
She parked in front of the house,
closed her eyes to see inside:
soft light, cigarette smoke,
lemon furniture polish,
television on, dishes clanking,
soup stewing on the stove,
open arms waiting.
She could walk right in,
not even knock.
But when she opened her eyes,
it was all gone,
the house painted yellow now,
the driveway paved.
If she tried to go in,
the faces, all changed,
would turn to stare at a stranger.
She drove a mile down the road
to the edge of town
stepped out of her car,
walked across some well-kept grass,
bent down and felt the names
etched deeply in stone.
Names that belonged to the house
that was and wasn’t there.
Driftwood 