Chapter Four
To say she was going home was clichéd like when people say sunrise is the start of a new day. The sunrises Gloria had witnessed had always meant the end of something, never a beginning.
She was driving fast now to make up for lost time after hitting Walter the canine k******e. She sped past a farmhouse. In the yard a teenager tossed a football with his dad. A pretty woman sat on the steps watching and smiling. A breeze too warm for late October plucked orange and brown leaves from the fruit trees in the side yard and dusted the lawn with them.
She was going “home.” She tried to piece “home” together from fragments of memories, happy moments in little snippets, long buried. She’d been too little then to remember much and those few memories were a weight that she’d never quit
