Children played in the front yard as I drove by; throwing snowballs at each other. Dad was shoveling the driveway. Mom looked on behind a fogged-up glass door. Candles were in the windows.

I lived there as a child. I remembered cold days like this. But the driveway was never cleared. Snowballs were never thrown. There was no glass front door. Just an old house in the middle of the street; shutters falling off.

My dad would be gone for weeks at a time. He drove a semi all across half of the country. Delivered cars from the Midwest to the East Coast. Used to tell stories about Boston and New York. Dreamt I would see those towns one day. Still haven’t. 

This town. It keeps you here. Locks folks in. People never leave. They’re just like me; drive around thinking of the past; high school football games, first job they ever had at the Kroger store , going off to college only to come right back; pulled in like a rope was around them. 

Some day I’ll leave this town. Some day.