EPILOGUE — The Last Thing I Took From Home
Once the sheriff released my old duffel, I went through it at the motel. The wool socks were still at the bottom. My grandmother’s photograph had curled at the corners, and the St. Michael medal was tucked inside one of the socks where I had put it years earlier. Its chain had broken, so I bought a new one before Mr. Greer’s retirement party.
He was standing near the coffee when I handed it to him. He looked down at the medal and turned it over in his palm.
“Emily, I gave this to you.”
“I remember,” I said. “I’d like you to have it now.”
He tried to hand it back. I closed his fingers around it and told him what I had been trying to put into words since the day he picked me up from the depot.
“You were there when I came home. I’ll always remember that.”
He cried, and I stayed beside him while he did. After a while, he asked if I would let him know where I landed. I told him I’d send a letter as soon as I had an address.
The station aired one last piece when Dad was transferred to state custody. I watched long enough to see the footage of my old street. There was the porch, the truck, and the neighbors trying to see around one another. I remembered hearing someone whisper that I’d been in prison. Even after all those months, I could recall exactly where that voice had come from.
For four years, people had run into my parents at the grocery store or outside church and asked how I was doing. Mom would sigh, and Dad would stand beside her. Somewhere overseas, I would be finishing a shift or writing home, assuming the people I loved were simply busy. It still hurt to think about how long I had kept putting my return address on those envelopes.
On my last morning in town, I drove up the old driveway one more time. The blue shutters were closed. The porch swing still hung from the same rusted chain. I stopped beside the mailbox and lifted the ceramic angel out of the dirt. A little soil fell from the broken wing. I put it in a trash bag and set it by the curb.
Then I walked up to the porch where my old bag had landed. Standing there, I remembered how badly I had wanted my mother to open that door when I first came home. I had thought that if I could just get inside, I might be able to ask her why she’d stopped writing back.
My old bag was in the truck. I had packed my grandmother’s photograph inside it, between two shirts so it wouldn’t bend any further. I went back down the steps, got behind the wheel, and pulled out of the driveway into the morning sun.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
