metro card//MGG

14

I don't tell anyone where I'm going, or when I'll be back. honestly, I don't know the answer to the second question. there's only a loud buzzing in my head that won't quit, chaotic and unrelenting.

the second the plane hits the runway, I release a breath I've been holding for four hours. being trapped in a metal coffin in the sky with seventy other strangers isn't exactly my definition of a good time.

it's much colder here. my hair is flat and my body is exhausted. it takes everything in me just to go through the motions of getting my bags, calling a taxi. the whole ride, I stare out the window and watch the Twin Cities flash by.

ice slicks the roads, slowing traffic as we head into Minneapolis. the sun peeks over the horizon, shedding a crystalline light over snow-covered suburban rooftops. morning feels different in the winter, for some reason. I've never understood it; like the air is more dry. when we pull into my old driveway, I pay the driver and haul my only suitcase out and up to the front door.

there's only a moment allowed for me to take in the structure with my own eyes; the window where my room is located is closed, obviously. the door has an enormous, gaudy wreath on the front. paint is freshly coated, meaning they probably had it done over the summer.

my mother is inside that house. it's hard to believe how physically close she is, given how much distance I have continually put between us. my father is in there, too, although it wouldn't surprise me if he left suddenly. there's a tiny part of me that wants to go home-- New York home. but I couldn't do that, even if I really wanted to.

I almost jump when a squirrel scampers across the lawn, inadvertently letting me know that it's time to woman up. so I reach out and knock on the door, listen to the sound of my knuckles against solid oak.

I start to wonder if she's still asleep, but there's no way. my mother never sleeps: she practices reading tarot cards until she's invented about fifteen different destinies for me; she sweeps around the house in her robes and makes buttered toast at three in the morning and passes out on the couch in the living room. but she never just sinks into bed and calls it a day.

the door swings open and there she is. my mother. her skin is sallow, taut. hair pouring down her shoulders and curling just a bit at the ends. she takes me in for a moment before breaking the heavy, invisible chord between us. 

"Ophelia." she says my name in a way that she never has before, like a house of cards right after it's been poked a little too hard. on the verge of collapse.

"hi, mom." I clench my jaw because I can feel it starting. tears prick the back of my eyes, and I don't know what they're for. I never know what they're for.

instead of responding, she pulls me into her arms. she's lost weight since we last spoke, but her grip is iron tight. I bury my face in her shoulder and breathe in her scent, which is always the same: Lancôme. it's floral, sweet, light. my body feels like it's going to fold into hers.

when she finally lets go, I sniff and glance down at my suitcase to hide the red edges of my eyes.

"is dad here?"

"no. he's in Sydney right now." she replies with none of the rage that it deserves. something boils up within me, and pity for my mother, too. she's alone? he left her alone. I want to slam the front door as soon as I walk through it. our house hasn't changed a bit. there aren't any Christmas decorations; it's gray and hollowed-out.

"how are you doing?" my voice fills the room. I take my coat off and set my suitcase by the stairs.

"I'm good. missing you." she smiles at me. my heart squeezes.