After spending twenty-four hours packing up my rental house, I shoved my clothes into boxes, gathered my guitar-building tools, collected my dog, and drove across the country to Arizona to stay with my parents for the next four weeks.
I knew it was bad then—my failing vision.
Halfway into the drive, I missed a crucial exit and didn’t realize it until I was nearly an hour off course. Signs blurred. Headlights smeared into streaks. I kept the window cracked to feel the wind shift when I drifted too close to the edge of the road.
Now I’m here. In this goddamn pinewood cage my parents call a “healing retreat.”
My mother smooths a dish towel over the counter like that’ll fix something. “It has everything you need. Running water, peace, good light…”
Good light.
Christ.
I force a nod, even as the sunlight through the window scorches my eyes. Everything’s too bright or too dim lately. There’s no in-between. No clarity.
I sink onto the edge of the stiff couch, my dog curling loyally at my feet like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he blinks.
“Do you want me to unpack your tools?” she asks, too cheerfully. “Might be nice to build something again.”
My eyes close.
I can’t even thread a needle without squinting for five minutes. I’ve sliced my finger twice in the last week trying to sharpen a chisel.
But it’s all I have. My only outlet. My saving grace.
“Yeah,” I mumble. “Sure.”
She hums under her breath. “I wish you found a place closer to home. We hate that you’re so far away.”
Home.
My home isn’t there.
My home isn’t here.
My home is wrapped up in paper-white skin, vivid purple streaks, an angelic voice, and watermelon lips.
Annie.
My girl. My love. My real home.
But not all homes are permanent.
And not all love stories end with a happily ever after.
My father shuffles in through the side door with a bear horn in his hand and a baseball cap pulled low over shaggy, almost-gray hair. “Got the grass mowed,” he says, sweat dripping down his face. “Place looks less like a hermit’s bunker and more like a rock star’s hideout now. You should hire a weekly landscaper, considering you’re sitting on a good amount of savings and barely anything else to spend it on.”
I grunt a reply.
While I prefer living under my means—having lived that way out of necessity for too many years—I make a mental note to contact companies. Who knows when my vision will be gone for good. Although running a lawn mower over my foot sounds less painful than my current reality.
Mom winds toward me, clearing a path. Then she takes a seat beside me on the couch as Toaster sniffs her arm and gives her a lick. “Honey, we want to make sure you’re okay before we head home,” she says, worry tingeing her tone. “You haven’t been alone in over a month. It scares us that you’re out here by yourself with hardly any cell service, let alone friends close by.”
“I’ll manage. I’ve done it before.”
She swallows, tucking a glossy piece of hair behind her ear. “This is different.”
“What, because I’m handicapped now?”
