---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Seasons” Down in the Dirt, v171 (the May 2020 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology Outside the Box the Down in the Dirt May-Aug. 2020 issues collection book		get the 422 page May-Aug. 2020 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book 2020 in a Flash the 2020 flash fiction & art collection anthology		get the 296 page flash fiction & artwork & photography collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Go Back

Don Tassone

    I started out intending to run five miles, but my knees were hurting, so I decided to run three.
    Maybe I’m getting too old for this, I thought. It seemed like a good idea five years ago, when I retired. But now that I was back in shape, running five days a week, I was thinking about cutting back. A little too much wear and tear on my aging body.
    But then the pain in my knees subsided. Not only that, but I began to feel stronger. I had more spring in my step.
    I had decided to run in my neighborhood and the adjoining neighborhoods that morning. There were just a few busy streets to cross. As I waited for a walk sign at an intersection, I noticed how few SUVs were on the road and, even stranger, how many minivans there were. Maybe they’re making a comeback, I thought.
    I crossed the street and ran on. Remarkably, my hips, which had been bothering me lately too, now didn’t hurt at all. I was really feeling good all of a sudden. Maybe I’ll run five miles today after all.
    As I ran through a nearby subdivision, I was surprised to see so many older cars. The houses seemed older too. I hadn’t run there in a while. I didn’t remember this subdivision being that much older than mine.
    Even stranger, my body was now feeling so different. I felt stronger and lighter. I’d been running on the flats of my feet for years, but now I was running on my toes, like I did when I was young, and running faster than I had in years. I wondered if my attempts at cutting back on sugar were finally paying off.
    I ran through the subdivision and waited for the light to change at another busy road. Now the minivans were gone, and there were a lot of station wagons whizzing by. How retro. Maybe they’re making a comeback too.
    I was approaching the high school my kids had attended years before. But as I got close, the buildings looked different. They were smaller than I remembered, and the brick was red, not yellow. As I ran past the entrance, the sign out front said “Fairfield High School.” This was not my kids’ school! It was my high school.
    Where was I? I stopped running and looked around. Now all the houses looked old, but most of them were in really good condition, the way I remembered them when I was a kid. I looked up at the street sign. I was on the corner of Mississippi Drive and Potomac Avenue, just two blocks from my house as a kid.
    I spotted a car parked on the street. It was a green 1965 Chevy Impala, just like the one our neighbor, Mr. Asher, used to drive. As I walked past it, I saw my reflection in the window. I could hardly believe my eyes. I was thin and young, with a full head of long, brown hair! I looked down. I was wearing white Converse tennis shoes, tube socks and red and white gym trunks, my high school colors. What the hell was happening?
    I kept walking. A few minutes later, I was standing at the end of my old driveway. I looked at my old house. It seemed so small. The garage door was up. I recognized my old Schwinn Varsity 10-speed bike inside.
    I felt like I was losing my mind. How could that possibly be my old bike? It was stolen when I was in college. How could this be my old house?
    I had to find out. I walked up the driveway and into the garage. It was a two-car garage, but we had only one car, and it was gone. I walked past my bike to the door that led into our house. It was open. I could see into the dining room through a wood-framed screen door. It was a warm day, and we didn’t have air conditioning when I was a kid. We kept the doors and windows open a lot.
    I heard someone inside. Dare I go in? I grabbed the handle of the screen door and pulled it open. A spring on the hinge side of the door made a sound.
    “Patrick, is that you?” came a voice from inside. It was my mother. But how could it be? She had died last year.
    I was standing in the dining room, just inside the door, when she peeked out from the kitchen.
    “Oh, it is you,” she said. “How was your run?”
    It was my mother. She looked so young. I was stunned. I couldn’t move.
    “Well, how was your run?” she asked, wiping her hands with a small towel. “Are you okay?”
    “Yeah, Mom,” I finally managed to say. “How are you?”
    She laughed.
    “I’m fine, Patrick. Same as I was an hour ago, when you left for your run.”
    “That’s good,” I said.
    It was all I could muster. I walked through the dining room and into the kitchen. My mom was peeling potatoes at the sink. Her hair was dark, and her waist was thin. She glanced back at me and said, “Now go get your shower. Your dad will be home in less than an hour.”
    “Dad?”
    “Yeah,” she said. “He’ll be home from work soon, and we’re going to eat as a family tonight.”
    I struggled to grasp what she was saying. How could my father be home in less than an hour? He’d been gone for nearly 10 years.
    “Where are Doug and Beth?” I asked.
    “Doug’s at baseball practice,” Mom said. “Beth’s in her room, studying.”
    “Beth’s in her room?”
    “Yes, and don’t you dare bother her. She’s got a big math test tomorrow.”
    This was all too weird. My little sister Beth, who was now 56 years old and a grandmother, was in her bedroom studying for a sixth grade math test.
    I wasn’t sure what to do. Part of me wanted to obey my mother and take a shower. Part of me wanted to go see Beth. Part of me wanted to wait to see my father, to talk with him again.
    But a voice inside me was telling me to leave, to get out of there, to go back to my home—I mean where I live now. I thought of my wife, my children and my grandchildren. I knew I had to get back to them. And I knew that if I didn’t leave soon, if I became too attached to this place and time and these people, I might never be able to go back.
    “Mom, I said, “I’ll be right back.”
    “Where are you going?” she asked, turning around.
    “To finish my run,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
    “Patrick, sometimes I just don’t understand you,” she said, shaking her head.
    I stepped toward her, opened my arms and embraced her.
    “I love you, Mom,” I said, kissing her on the cheek.
    “I love you too,” she said. “What brought that on?”
    I stood back from her and looked into her eyes.
    “I didn’t tell you that enough,” I said. “I didn’t tell Dad that enough either. Will you tell him for me, please? When he gets home, will you tell him I love him?”
    “Patrick, you’re not making any sense. Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
    “I can’t, Mom. I can’t do that anymore. Just tell him, please.”
    She shook her head again and smiled.
    “Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell him.”
    “Thank you,” I said. “Goodbye, Mom.”
    I walked back through the dining room and out into the garage. I ran my hand across the hard leather seat of my bike and was tempted to hop on and ride away. But I knew I had to return the same way I’d arrived, on foot.
    I walked to the end of the driveway, took one last look at my old house and started running home.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...