Turn Signals

            I love the sound of turn signals at night. My dad—he used to love to take meandering roads when coming back from visiting family—a three hour trip turned four and a half hours. Turn signals meant we were off the long roads; we were close to home. 

            Some things in this life feel like that long road, that extra meandering. It can be painful. One can lose hope. On these roads, I wait for the chunk-CHUNK, chunk-CHUNK. I want to get back home. 

            Unlike road trips, the long roads in our lives can take us to a home we’ve never seen or been to before. We are ourselves—familiar; placed in the new—unfamiliar. And in all these unfamiliar homes there are elements of good and bad that must be unpacked, sorted through, and lived with. 

            I am on a long road, and my heart holds its breath to hear the turns begin. When I get home, I hope it gives a welcome—that it is strong enough to hold my heart, my life. 

            Until then, I am the child laying in the backseat, lulled by road noise, waiting.