Journey Home

The streets are empty of people as they are preparing for the possible blizzard coming through. I walk in the middle of the old cracked road, where weeds are peeking through. Grass can’t grow in this type of environment, but somehow weeds can. How the hell does that work? I kick at a loose piece of pavement and send it flying ahead of me, its echo bouncing off the walls of buildings around me. I shove my fingerless gloved hands into my jacket pockets. Within just a few minutes the temperature has dropped dramatically. I reach an intersection and turn left onto another street. The farther I walk up this street, the nicer the houses seem to get. Nearing the end of the street, I turn right. This street slopes up dramatically, a hill seemingly forming from nowhere. I walk up the steep hill, and at the top I stop. The road continues on, remaining flat for a while before sloping down again. To the right of me is a big, old stone house. The door is made from old wood with a large brass handle. The windows are boarded up, which I assume is for the storm coming. As I get closer, I can see a few candles flicker in between the gaps between the boards on the windows. My mother is still up then. When I reach the door, I pull out my keys from one of the bags hanging from my belt. I slide the key into the lock, and swing open the door.