the long way home [ h.s. ]

Twenty Four | 24

twenty four | 24

☓

I get home from Harry's house around five. As I walk up the porch steps, I find myself replaying it all in my head.

It was difficult to say goodbye after everything he showed me; everything that I came to know. All of the sudden, I realized how much faith he keeps in me-- to trust me to enter that room, to sit on that bed, to enter that part of his world.

Despite the sadness of the circumstance, I feel like a large weight has been lifted from the both of us. I'm not in the dark anymore, and Harry doesn't have to be alone.

He walked me out to the edge of the driveway, with his fingers intertwined with mine. I asked if he'd be okay, to which he said yes, and not to worry. He kissed me, and held me once more, and I swear that it took all of my strength to walk away from him.

It's never easy to walk away from Harry.

And recently, I've found that the physical reality of being away from him leaves me with a sort of... Emptiness. It's not that I can't bear to be on my own-- not at all. It's just that he currently resides in my heart, and when I'm away from him, I can still feel his presence there.

Pulling at the strings, keeping me rooted in my thoughts and dreams.

And I've begun to think--

Maybe this is the very beginning of something I can't even imagine.

☓

All my life, I've been absolutely convinced that there's no better man than my father. Maybe it's because he doesn't call me Magdalene; or that he works all day and still comes home with a smile on his face. Maybe it's the fact that, in many ways, he's just like me. Quiet and collected, with a strong attachment to the people he cares about.

When I was younger, he read to me every night.

Poems, mostly-- I've always loved poems. But when he couldn't get me to sleep, he'd pull out The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. For some reason, it always calmed me down; I'd disappear into the descriptions of frozen rivers and snow-capped trees, and then the next thing I knew, it was morning.

He has an amazing laugh.

It's the kind of laugh that's so loud, it engulfs you in your own happiness.

He hates coffee, and instead drinks tea avidly. My mother teases him for it all the time; but he doesn't mind, and that's amazing in itself.

He loves art.

That's how he got interested in building houses; the construction of shapes, finding space, making things work.

Whenever I come home in shambles, he'll drop it all. He'll give me a big bear hug and tell me It's okay. In the end, everything is always okay. As much as I love my mother, Dad and I have always clicked. It's always so easy with him-- to talk, to laugh, to just be myself.

And when I get home from Harry's, my hands tucked neatly into the pockets of my jacket, I find him in the garden.

He sits with his body crouched, pulling up the small weeds that try to creep in. He doesn't see me at first, because my feet don't make a sound against the lush May grass. I call out a hello-- just to make sure that I don't startle him. He halts from pulling, turning his head upwards and flashing a grin.