Four days on the road after four months

away — back home — it all felt unfamiliar

in its familiarity – the house, cold from

the long winter’s nap, would have to have

 

the furnace turned up for a while just to

warm the walls. The green, leather chair

still creaked as always, the paintings on

those cold walls each told a story with

 

which he was familiar but now he didn’t

know if those stories were still his or if

the artists had taken them back. One after-

noon he suggested to his wife that they

 

go north to a nearby, seaside town for

happy hour. Another afternoon he

suggested that they go south to a

nearby, seaside town for happy hour.

 

A third day he suggested they just

stay in town for happy hour. The

previous night he dreamed of people

in town he knew but weren’t his

 

friends. They rose up like ghosts to

haunt him. He woke up damp in the cold

downstairs bedroom glad to be awake

but not wanting to get up and step

 

on the cold, tile floor. He thought about

the church to which they used to belong.

He had even driven past it the day they

went south for happy hour. The church

 

has a new pastor. The man thought how

it might be nice some Sunday to visit

the church and then go to one of their

old haunts for brunch. He wished it

 

would warm up so they could go camp-

ing up north. He felt along a wall and

decided he could turn the thermostat

down to normal. He sat back down in

 

the green, leather chair, pushed against

the back and heard the creaks. He

looked at each painting and retold

the stories to himself.