Close the door. Lock the door. Sigh. Keys, wallet, cell phone, purse on the table. Sigh again, for good measure and because it’s been a long nine months. Turn the radio on, breathe in the old school vibes of nostalgia, exhale deeply. Forget about all the mornings asking myself “why did I ever move to the city”. Remember the child who grew up in a small home in the mountains with no life. It was a long eighteen years but it’s been a longer nine months. It’s good to be here. The issue with my mind, I’ve decided, is that is has all the we thoughts creeping and slithering all over the place. Here it’s not like that. Here I can set about the business of recovery- but maybe that’s a problem in and of itself. Apparently I consider everything a business matter. Even my own life. But that’s for later in the story. I’ve been thinking about it for the two hours it took me to drive from one lifetime to another and now I don’t know if I like myself. My head hurts. There’s a note on the table- “Olivia, aspirin in the fridge”- with a sticky note on top of it- “Liv aspirin in the cabinet. Call your mother and see if she’s ok”- where would I go for R+R if not home sweet home?

“Olivia,” I call. “Where you at?”

Thanks for reading this little piece and happy holidays.

I write poetry, prose, and personal pieces. All images are mine unless indicated otherwise. Feel free to leave feedback on my work anytime; I hope you enjoy.

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