The route seems so familiar, every bump in the road deeply ingrained in my subconscious. Going over the Grand Avenue bridge, not much has changed at all. The same businesses, there's the grocery store, the K-Mart, the restaurant. I've gone home from my sister's house this way many more times than I can count. I'm driving on automatic pilot, it seems.
I turn down the street and approach the little house. So familiar, this scene. My mom's car in the carport, the red Rocky in the driveway, the shiny motorcycle in front. So familiar because I've seen that image for years.
The tears begin almost as soon as I take in the view. Everything's the same. The house, the cars, the trees. Except I won't be dropping my mom off with a hug and peck on the cheek, saying "See you later," or being lured back with a promise of something tasty for dinner next time. I won't be waving goodbye, as she stands outside waving the sign of the cross, as if she had the power of God to keep us safe with that little gesture. I won't be seeing her in a few days. I won't be seeing her ever. Ever.
The tears continue all the way home.
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The (j)oys of my life.
