I imagined my return home after
Christmas the way the Prodigal
returned struck by the landmarks
that retained enough of yesterday
to guide him. The past not yet fleeing
fast enough away and the certain,
uncertain steps of return.
I drove in the rain surrounded on all
sides by valley mists, stream fogs,
the winter bareness.
I didn’t drive trying to make up time
but drove as if each revolution of the tires
was a tentative step between desire
and regret. The rain didn’t let up. The gray
did not go away. So I drove uncertain
of welcome, of if I’d be taken back
into time and eternity and the place
I was returning to. I got confused
forgetting I was returning home,
felt I was the Prodigal, that I was thin
from deprivation and desperation,
forgot – for a minute – I had seen my
children, my grandchildren, my once
wife and had broken bread, exchanged gifts
and I knew I could come and go
along that road that led me away
from home and back again. Thought
I heard the Prodigal say, “Dad, I’m home.”
-Byron Hoot
