The Long Way Home

There is a road I could drive with my eyes closed, though I never would. It leaves the highway at the gas station, passes the bakery that has changed hands three times, and bends toward the harbour, where the pavement finally gives up and lets the water have the last word. Somewhere along them, I stop being who I am in the city. My shoulders drop. The radio goes quiet on its own. Maybe home isn’t a house at all, but a route your body remembers. It always feels longer on the way back, and I have never once minded.