The Road Home

Burt chuckled when he realized that, for the past hour, he’d been wearing a smile. He couldn’t remember the last time he had anything to smile about.

The sky was clear and the valley stretched for miles in front of him. Burt hadn’t passed another vehicle since Garrettsville. The only sound was the singing of his tires as he sped along the highway that would take him back home. He checked the time again. In just about an hour he’d see Jilly and Micky.

The last time he saw his kids was a blur. He could not remember if there were tears, but there must have been. There was a lot of yelling, that much he definitely recalled. But, the memories he preferred to recollect were the ones of Micky telling himself long, shaggy-dog stories, using his toys as props and characters. And Jilly’s dance recitals. “My little Jilly ‘Sandman’ Jones,” he used to call her. She made Sammy Davis Jr. look like an amateur, as far as Burt was concerned.

Jilly and Micky would not be children anymore, of course. Burt wouldn’t need to scold them for putting their elbows on the table during the dinner to which they invited him, in order to get reacquainted. He tried to imagine what they look like now. Jilly must be tall, like her mother, and a dancer, maybe a Rockette, or even a professional ballerina. Micky maybe grew up to be a writer or journalist, what with all those stories he used to tell himself. Or an engineer, or maybe a scientist of some kind. He was always such a serious little kid.

What Burt knew for certain is that, in spite of his excitement, he needed to give both of them a wide berth. Let them ease into the reunion with him. Twenty-eight years is a long time.


UnOLWG Prompts are: keep the margins wide; throwing sand on the floor; tires singing; put your elbows on the table; this will take you there