Darkness. No stars, no moon, no streetlight. Only a blinking yellow light shines, just far enough to be seen. The air, sad almost, crying, sorry to see us leave. Rusted, squeaking and old. Pummeling down a familiar road. No one is around. A small town turned into a barren desert. Not even the tumbleweed dares to roll. Goodbye stores and signs, seen for the last twelve years, even though it seems like the beginning of time for me. Goodbye sidewalks and parking lots, stepped on and crumbling. Goodbye smell and sound. Goodbye home.
Among the hush, one set of eyes open just long enough for a last glimpse of their old life. What will it be like in six hours? In six hours, five people’s lives will change. My life is changing in six hours. I close my eyes and drift off.
Light. The sun streaming in all of the car’s windows. People bustling and cars honking. The blue van still going with just enough might to pull into the driveway. It stops with a sigh making everyone in the car lunge forward stretching seatbelts to the limit. Still. The first feel of new ground. It’s softer, but unfriendly. Damp, but no character. We are met by a harsh wind, slapping my hair against my cheeks. Welcome to your new house it seems to whisper while it leaves the yard, as if it wants to rush out and leave the area as soon as possible. Open the door and it smells like paint. Cold hardwood floors line the whole house. Stairs that make you feel as if you’re on an ice rink with no skates. Is this home?
It is now.