My mother picked me up from the airport in the dark hours of the morning.

It had been a long flight and an even longer year.

When we finally pulled into the driveway, the ranch house I grew up in looked like a little

black shipwreck sticking out of the fog.

Why is the kitchen light on, I wondered.

Mom lives alone.

We're here, boy.

Oh yes we are.

My mom shouted as she opened the door.

That's hard, I thought.

Is she talking to me?

I rolled my luggage into the dark hallway.

I didn't really need a light after all.

I knew the place by heart.

The jet lag was hitting hard and I barely managed the hug and a simple conversation before

I had to drag myself off to bed.

I heard mom's muffled voice from the kitchen as I drifted off to sleep.

It was a sweet, going sort of sound.

The tone of voice you'd use were the baby.

Oh, a pet.

By the next morning I'd forgotten all about it.

I joked black coffee and jumped on cereal while my mother and I tried to plan our visit.

...