“I’m here,” I say to no one.I am not sure if it is sentimental or a fact stated aloud because it helps me keep moving.
The bathroom mirror has spots.The light over it hums.In the linen closet, towels and sheets are folded in the same tight stack my father used to do, corners aligned like a ceremony.The living room, a TV older than me, a recliner moulded to one body, and an old crochet throw draped over the back.
I don’t try to rewrite history while I walk.It isn’t who I am.
My parents were a mess together.My mother chased more like it was oxygen; my father loved silence like it was the only honest sound left.They pulled, and I was the rope.I grew up, moved, and worked.I went to learn what I like to do with my hands and my time.That’s how I ended up in a vet tech program, a year in, exhausted and happy in the way good work makes you.
Back in the kitchen, I set the key basket down and pick upTRUCK.It’s heavier than the others.A memory moves through me, and I grab the barn key too.
Outside, the yard gives under my boots, the top inch of earth thawed, the rest still winter-hard.The barn door sticks and then slides with a low groan that echoes.Inside smells like oil and hay and something comforting.
Shafts of light fall through the slats and lay pale stripes across the floor.Tools hang where I remember them being my last time here, wrenches lined up smallest to largest, a hammer with the handle wrapped in electrical tape, mason jars of screws and nails.The workbench still has an old radio on it, the dial set to a country station he always swore sounded better “when it had to fight to come in.”
A tarp sits in the corner, soft with dust, thrown over something tall and long.
I catch the edge and pull, walking back.Dust flares and I cough, and there she is: a baby-blue Chevy with a wide chrome smile and rust freckles along the rocker panels.My knees go weak with the memory that hits.
The first time I was tall enough to ride shotgun, he made a ceremony of it.Opened the passenger door and tapped the seat like he was knighting me.
“Big enough now,” he said, chin tipped like he was proud but pretending not to be.
I beamed so hard my face hurt.We drove slow, windows cranked down, old country soft through a station half static.Wheat in late summer bowed toward the road; he drummed two fingers on the wheel in time.He didn’t say much.He didn’t have to.I read his quiet like other kids read books.
I slide into that seat now, leather worn and smooth with use, and let the memory lay itself over me like morning sun.The tears come then steady and stubborn.
“I would’ve helped,” I tell the empty cab.It’s not a plea.It’s a statement.“Even if we never fixed us, I would’ve shown up for you.”
Even after how our last conversation went.I didn't let go.I sent letters from everywhere I travelled, an olive branch for him to still be connected to my life.I wrote about colicky foals and stubborn goats and the way my hands learned new work.I left a number.And yes, a note about the account where I posted pictures from the places I worked, from the life I was living.Not because I care about hearts or follows, because sometimes the simplest way to say “I’m okay” is in a picture of you being just that.Sunset over a vineyard, apple picking, and my acceptance letter to school.Moments in time that felt important to me.
I scoot across the bench seat, into the driver’s side, and turn the key.
The engine gives me a cough, a sullen half-turn, then nothing.
“We can fix you,” I say, and pat the dash.
Back inside, I make small circles of progress.The kettle earns its keep; the cast iron gets scrubbed and dried, and seasoned.I open a few windows to trade the house’s stale breath for fresh, new days.I dust the mantle over the fireplace and find a pair of reading glasses folded and set neatly on a book of trail maps, as though he’d planned a walk he never got to take.
Judy stops by near sunset with a bundle of split wood hugged against her chest.She sets it by the cookstove and acts like she didn’t notice me blinking away the last of the fresh set of tears.
“Nights still get a bite,” she says, smiling.“Dean and Brody always cut extra.If you’re staying a few more days, you’ll be glad to have it.”
I thank her and mean it.She hesitates at the door, then adds, “We meet for coffee with a few townsfolk every Sunday at Clara’s, around eleven.Nothing fancy.Just catching up, talking about what the next book we should read is or Diane's next fundraiser.Join us if you want to catch up or if you need anything.”
“I’m not much of a coffee-club person,” I say, then catch myself.I know she is trying to welcome me into the fold, and I don't want to push her away.“But I might stop by.I need a mechanic for the truck, and someone to keep an eye on the place when I’m in Summit City.”
“Dean will set you up,” she says, like that’s a solved problem.“And between the people who will be there on Sunday, we know everyone in the surrounding towns.”She pauses for a beat and then speaks more softly.“You look good here, Tessa.”
“I’m not staying.Not yet,” I answer.It’s not stubbornness, just a fact.Everything happened so fast, I am still working through it.“I’ve got school.”
“Then we’ll see you when we see you.”She taps the doorframe like a blessing and heads down the steps.
The second night, the house shifts a little toward me, like a dog deciding I might be worth trusting.I unearth an old iPad on the kitchen counter, plugged into a socket that buzzes if you look at it wrong.The case is cracked; the glass is smudged.I almost put it back, then didn’t.
It takes three tries to wake up.When it does, there’s one app open, nothing else on the screen.My thumb hovers even though I already know what I’ll find.
My account sits there, the one I mentioned once in a letter.WanderingRoots.My posts are saved.Albums labelled by the places I’d written from.
I put it back where I found it and stared out the window, trying to put the pieces of our shared past together.
