Ficlets

When you’re doing something, you never think to yourself, “This could be the last time…”

You never think it.

But as I drive home from your house at eleven o’clock down the highway that isn’t really a highway, but more of a glorified, four-lane road, I do think it. The individual words formulate first, separate, disconnected, not yet folding into that one terrifying thought.

When they do connect, it takes my breath away.

This is the last time I will ever drive home from your house. From this house that used to be your house but isn’t your house any more.

There.

I think it.

Whole, gleaming, complete – there – horrible and terrifying and thought for the very first time. Raw like a wound and so startling in its absolute simplicity.

The last time I will ever pull out of your driveway. The last time I will ever pass this mailbox with your last name on it. The last time you will linger behind that closed front door.

The. Last. Time.

Those are words your mind can choke on.