This was not our Sunday drive to the country.
Mother, patient the seasons in their slow march
would reveal in time a way forward, strengthened
our belief such sojourns made life bearable.
Father, unsure where we were going,
no longer interested which way was west, said
nothing save, “Well, that’s it.” His eyes said all
he could have said as he closed the door.
Leaving town we waved goodbye to its trees,
well-known namesake, so rooted in place thought
had it we could wait as long as needed,
should we decide to return. But today we would be
somewhere else. Later somebody remembered
a window left open, a door unlatched, something
we had forgotten. Though others would follow,
no one who leaves home ever really goes away.
