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I crawl toward layaway. Finally I’m
just about there, and digging for my
layaway slip, which of course I can’t
find. They’ll have to use my phone
number. Oops. Mom’s phone number.
Well, let me know if you can make it, Quade
says. Here’s my cell number. We fire up at nine.
“Thanks. I’ll definitely try. The only holdup
might be snow. They’re calling for a killer storm.”
Cool. Let me know either way. And either
way, stay in touch. He gives me a hug
and heads toward the monster checkout
lines. I watch him go as the lame layaway
girl says, Picking up a layaway? Unreal!
Layaway Picked Up
And a couple of leftover baubles
bought for Brad and the girls,
I drive back to Red Rock.
Somehow it still doesn’t feel like
home,
even if it is where my clothes reside;
where I go to sleep (sometimes)
at night; where I eat (sometimes);
where people (strangers) wait
for
me to come back to. No, “home”
is the other direction, in a protected
south valley, not here in a frigid
north valley Hades hole. [What
the
