"Ten years up, that's a wrap," Ron said while nodding to the others in the group, "ten years with no alcohol or drugs, I can't believe I did it." A small round of applause took place. Ron cracked a smile, "Thanks guys, I really couldn't have done it without you all. If I didn't quit, I'd have failed high school."
"Well, Ron," said the group leader, "we are glad we were able to spend time with you to help you through your problems. Really, it was a pleasure. It's always good to see one of my group members reach their goal. Good luck, Ron."
Ron said goodbye as he put his jacket on and left the building. It saddened Ron that he would probably never see the many faces he had come to know, but he was delighted that he had made it the whole way through. He hopped in his little Honda Civic, and turned on the ignition. Ron was quiet the entire trip, usually he turns on the radio to hear the local news in Sydney, but not this time. He was alone with his thoughts, there was no need for distraction.
Ron pulled up into his driveway and put his car in park. He paused for a while before he exited, still deep in his thoughts. Inside his modest home he took his jacket off and collapsed on his sofa with a sense of relief. He let out a faint laugh as he brushed his hair back with his hand, remembering the spiky abomination that used to dominate his skull, and to think he thought it was cool.
He stood back up and walked to his calendar. With a neat flick-of-the-wrist he crossed off May 18th. The last day. He was baffled how far he had come. From being a drug-addicted little juvenile dim-wit, to a decent hard-working teacher.
Ron grabbed a dusty album from the top of his mantelpiece. "Many Memories" it read. It was a gift his mother had made when he moved from the Port, some 10 years ago. He flipped over the first page, "To my little boy, Pickles. I'm glad you've decided to move on, I know you'll make me proud. Love, Mum."
"Pickles," Ron repeated with a soft chuckle, "I can't believe they used to call me that." He flipped over through the many pages, glancing over the photos of himself, back in his youth at the Port. He was with his friends; Blacky and the rest, playing some footy, riding his bike. He was a terrible child back then, but he was a happy one. He'd left his past behind and become a new person. He had a career, he had a nice home, he had it all. But he had left something else behind. He left his home, and home is where the heart is.
Ron put the book down. He grabbed his keys and his jacket and got in his car. "Pickles." He said softly as he nodded to himself. He adjusted his rear-view mirror and put his keys in the ignition. "Pickles." He said again, louder this time.
Ron stepped on the pedal and was on his way. He knew exactly where he was going.
