The long way home

The Long Way Home

The old Ford sputtered along the winding road, every mile closer to the mountains stirring memories Marlene had worked hard to forget. Her hands gripped the wheel as the familiar peaks came into view, their outlines hazy against the morning sky. She wasn’t ready for this—not for Janine's funeral, not for the ghosts waiting to meet her back home.

Janine had been her anchor when everything else in life drifted. Together, they’d once dreamed of growing old in rocking chairs, surrounded by laughter and wildflowers. But Marlene had chosen the open road instead, chasing freedom and losing herself along the way. She glanced at the guitar on the back seat, strings dusty from years of silence, and felt a pang of guilt. Janine always said music could heal anything. Marlene wasn’t so sure anymore.

Her first stop was a gas station on the edge of town. A wiry man perched on an overturned crate, plucking out a mournful tune on a battered guitar. His voice carried a roughness that felt too familiar, like someone who’d lived more life than he’d planned. Marlene tossed a couple of crumpled bills into his open case.
“Long road ahead?” he asked, not looking up from his strings.
“Something like that.” She hesitated, unsure why she was still standing there.
He glanced at her then, his eyes kind. “Sometimes the road ain’t about where you’re going. It’s about what you find on the way.”
Marlene gave a small nod, the words sticking in her mind like a melody she couldn’t shake.

At the little white church, the air felt heavy with the weight of shared grief. The minister spoke about Janine's kindness and unwavering faith, his voice steady as the mountains. Marlene stood at the back, arms folded, unsure if she still belonged among these people who once knew her better than she knew herself.

When the choir began to sing, their harmonies rose like a sunrise, filling the small church with light. Marlene closed her eyes, letting the music wash over her. She didn’t cry, but something inside her softened—a crack in the walls she’d built around herself.

After the burial, Marlene lingered in the churchyard, wandering between the gravestones. Her feet led her to her father’s grave, the name etched into the stone sharp and unyielding. She crouched down, brushing dirt from the base.
“You always believed in me,” she said softly. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. I’m still figuring it out, Dad. Still trying to see what you saw in me.”

As the sun dipped low, she stopped at a meadow bursting with wildflowers. She stepped out of the car and into the field, the soft blooms brushing against her jeans. Kneeling, she picked a handful of the brightest ones, the act feeling almost like a prayer. Janine would’ve loved this, she thought, tucking a sprig into her pocket.

That night, Marlene sat at a diner counter, sipping coffee and listening to the hum of conversations around her. The waitress, a young woman with tired eyes, set down her plate with a quiet “Here you go, hon.” Marlene smiled, something she hadn’t done in a while.
“Thanks,” she said.
The waitress lingered, wiping the counter. “You passing through?”
“Trying to find my way back,” Marlene said.
The waitress gave her a knowing look. “Aren’t we all?”

By the time Marlene reached her daughter’s house on the coast, dawn was breaking. The sky blazed with colors, soft and warm, like an open invitation. Her daughter stood on the porch, arms crossed, her face a mix of caution and hope.

Marlene hesitated, clutching the wildflowers she’d picked. “I didn’t know if you’d want me here,” she said, her voice quiet.
Her daughter stepped forward, wrapping her in a hug that spoke louder than words.
“You’ve always had a place here,” her daughter whispered.

That evening, as the tide rolled in, Marlene pulled out her guitar. Her fingers stumbled over the strings at first, but the notes came back to her like an old friend. Her daughter joined in, their voices blending in a patchwork of old hymns and soft folk songs. The music carried their unspoken forgiveness, filling the spaces where words had failed.

Before leaving the next morning, Marlene tucked the wildflowers into a jar on her daughter’s kitchen table. Beside it, she placed a small leather notebook—Janine's favorite hymns copied in Marlene’s careful handwriting.

Standing at the water’s edge, she felt the tide lap at her feet, pulling and releasing, like the rhythm of her own heart. The long road behind her had been full of detours and dead ends, but it had led her here. For the first time in years, Marlene felt at home—not just in a place, but in herself.
The end