Old Houses

The wind coasts in through the window, blowing my hair back in the breeze. Some old song plays on the radio, a Stones tune I can’t name, despite my father’s love of the band. It’s a quiet ballad, and I think, with a wistful smirk, of how perfectly it fits my feelings right now.

But that’s always the way it is, isn’t it? Music has a way of explaining everything you can’t.

My hands tighten on the wheel, but I feel them trembling. Part of me knows how ridiculous I’m being, and the other half silently agrees with what I’m doing.

I told myself I was just going out for a drive, but I knew it wasn’t true. I’ve always been a terrible liar, and that’s why I’ve always stuck to the truth.

But sometimes I wished I’d lied.

Maybe if I’d lied…

Maybe I wouldn’t be in so much pain.

But it’s my fault, and I know that. I know it, now, as I’m driving through the countryside in my old Ford truck, the truck you always laughed at, but loved so much. I know it as I watch the grey road disappear underneath me. I know it as I pass the sights I always used to watch for in anticipation to see you.

I shouldn’t have driven back here, several states away. I shouldn’t have visited these old memories, and I know that, because I left them behind here. But they still stand, waiting for me, like these old houses.

You know why I left, and so do I. But that doesn’t stop it from hurting any less.

The long grass dances beside me, interrupted only by the old wooden telephone poles. The decrepit wood is so much more welcome than the streetlamps that have been talking to me for the past few years, ever since I left you.

Faintly I’m struck by the differences in this open countryside as compared to my new city life, but I know I was made for this air. But you’re here. You’re in this air, an invisible pressure I felt as soon as I left my new home. And maybe, love, I was made for you.

I left my new life behind when I drove back here. I’m walking through the doors of the old houses, like I know I shouldn’t be.

I know I shouldn’t be.