Home

He's walking down South Carr street on his way to the river, more accurately on his way to the bridge going over the river, to smoke a cigarette and mull over the day's events, or quite possibly those of his entire life, or just of life in general. He just wants to sit under the bridge atop one of the cracked brown sandstone arches, smoke a cigarette, and think. He pulls a cigarette pack from his over worn denim jacket, then sifts through all the pockets of the plaid work shirt under it searching for a lighter.1

He's thankful to be alone. Thankful for the darkness, for the bridge, thankful for his cigarette, and for his lighter; wherever it may be, but most of all he's thankful for the gentle sloshing coming from his inside jacket pocket. He's got a lot to be thankful for he thinks to himself, and then almost completely draws a blank as to what that lot might consist of, but all the same he nods his head in silent toast to whatever it may be, does what he can to fight the cold, and trudges on; downward, toward his sanctuary and the ever growing cold.2

He sees a few cars off in the distance, and wonders what kind of person is out at this time or night, aside from himself, and especially in a car. A guilty husband slinking home to lie to his wife about car trouble, a traffic jam, or overtime at work; or perhaps some proud teenager, with exaggerated tales of his weekend conquests to tell his friends the next day at school, hoping to find his parents asleep, unaware and unconcerned. Either way he decides they deserve a toast, nods to the imaginary perverts and their very real perversions, draws his head into his jacket like a turtle ready for sleep, and emerges a little bit warmer, a little bit wobblier, and a lot less likely to end up at home tonight.3

"But, what is home anyway?" he ponders "Is it the place you sleep?" because if so his home could very well be defined as on his stomach, or is it where you spend most of your time, this could make the entire town his home or even the first arch of the old bridge, where his stale cigarette butts, and the box of his even staler poetry can be found. "Home is where you're most comfortable he thought", and his home is in the arms of a girl, a hundred miles away, whom he may never see again. At that thought he feels cold, inside and out, and decides she deserves a toast. He pulls his head in, and several seconds later pokes it back out, feeling a little warmer, and a little colder at the same time...The gentle sloshing is gone now, so he deposits the empty bottle in a mailbox before continuing on his way.4

He's on top of the bridge now. He looks over the edge, looks at the foam swirling on top of the shallow water below, and watches the moonlight reflected off of the water, catch on the lashes as his, now leaden eyelids. He staggers down the path, hidden by overgrown trees and ivy, that leads under the bridge, crawls into the spot he often finds himself in when he finds himself in this state and lays down. He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and removes something that he squints at heavily for a few painful seconds, and as he replaces his wallet he feels something plastic. He pulls his lighter from the ground and sparks it, something to be thankful for. He lights it, looks at her picture for as long as his teary eyes can stay open, and falls asleep, dreaming of home.