The sun was dipping far into the Western sky by the time I left the coffee shop. Already the cars approaching me on the narrow two-lane road were using their headlights. On the empty seat next to me were my books from school, my English Literature book and a book from German class.

I smelled like charbroiled burgers and cigarette smoke. There was that touch of lemon that always was there too. It was from the squashed lemons that people had used in their iced tea. You seemed to get all over you especially since the busboy had gone home early and I had taken over his job and mine, a novice fry cook in this little joint.

It was a smell I supposed I would remember all my life, that and the smell of cigarettes extinguished in ice water in the bottom of the bus tray.

It isn’t far from the coffee shop to home but at times, I made it as long as I could just to have a moment to myself when no one else’s thoughts pierced my mind.

The farmhouses I passed had windows that glowed with yellow light in a sharp contrast to the deepening blue light of dusk.

Gramps once said that when he died, this would be the time of day it would be. It was a time when all things seemed to urge you inward away from the lonesome strange light; into a kitchen filled with smells and dinning room chandeliers that made you squint in their brightness; the clatter of dishes being set on the table and the tinkle of silverware being placed.

Once it was completely dark, it was different. It was peaceful but at the time of day when the night fights with the daylight to overcome its brilliant rays there is chaos and it seemed lean on you in its twilight loneliness.

I reached down and turned on the headlights. The warm glow of the orange dash lights filled the space in front of me. I wondered what warm dish mom had prepared for dinner. They were waiting for me as they always did. My little sis would be watching cartoons and my brothers would be fighting over the sink, the soap and the towel as mom warned them to “Wash up, Greg will be home soon.”

The gravel driveway came almost too soon as I was deep in my thoughts. I knew that sound. I remember the sound of the gravel under the tires of Dad’s car as he entered the same driveway so many years ago, the running motor of the car and then the sudden silence.

As I stepped from the car I could hear her. “Greg’s home you guys, hurry up!”

My little sis met me at the door putting her arms around my legs. “Your legs are freezing.” She said.

I remember that too. Running to greet my dad and feeling the cold air that he brought in with him and the cold that stuck to his clothes.

I felt good that in this moment I was creating something for her that she would remember someday as I did now. It wasn’t just the cold clothes or the sound of the gravel on the driveway; it was a feeling of completion. That one more farmhouse now had windows that glowed yellow in the deep night and that everyone was home.

The door was closed and the brightness of the house surrounded us, the musty smell of the heater that was burning the dust that had accumulated all summer the food in the kitchen and the coffee on the stove.

The last one was home. I felt taller and older than I had when I walked out the door this morning. I was the last one. It was like some cherished grand position that I had finally aspired to.