If you’re reading this note (now that would be a sight for these sore eyes), it means you finally come home. Better late than never I told myself over and over again but never finally won me over.
You’ll never guess why I left but that’s okay, I’ll never figure out why I stayed. Suffice it to say, I got tired of being on the backside of things, like looking at the back of your fat head as you left the house for days at a time and at your sorry ass sticking up in the air, like some hoity-toity cracker, as you slept it off on your stomach.
At first, I was embarrassed by the shameful looks from men that knew, and the tell-all smiles from the women that won the lead of your love, while saving the reverse for me, now it just reminds me of the back of your hand, as it swept across my face in one big blur, callous and dirty.
Truth be told (surely something you’ll never know), I was fed up with living on the backside of this wreck of a mountain, in a ramshackle cabin, on this god forsaken farm. While chopping wood for the stove and fetching water from the stream weren’t nearly as exhausting as they appear, living your backtracking lie was, pretending that all was well in front of those dim-witted neighbors.
I suppose you’re confused about the door and why it doesn’t open upon your immediate command. Because you never were the brightest star in the night sky (I’m not talking about Ruby’s moonshine either), I’ll tell you. It doesn’t open because the lock was changed three days ago, so the key, like you, doesn’t work anymore. Perhaps the missing welcome sign across the door should have tipped you off but reading anything, people, books, etc, was never your strong suit.
Lord knows you won’t fret about the baby either; you never did worry about anyone else. He’s not locked inside, he’s safe with me and with all that cooing and gurgling he’s doing now, he sounds like a little piglet lost in the trough. It’s a shame you can’t hear him squeal with delight.
So don’t come trying to find us, we’re not coming back. I wish you all the best that living backwards has to offer. Maybe if you keep going backwards, you’ll get reborn again. Think about it, another chance to do what you’re so good at, doing things wrong.
TERRY MCKEE, recently relocated to southern Florida, is a mother of three almost grown c hildren and is enjoying her free time. Writing is one of several passions she now gets to purse regularly, although the lovely weather sometimes makes it difficult. Writing began as an organizational outlet for Terry in the form of journaling, later it grew into a career as a journalist for various local newspapers and freelance writer, drawing on her many life experiences.
Always looking for the extraordinary in the ordinary, some of Terry’s other stories have been published in Skive Magazine , Long Story Short, Prosetoad and Moondance. Any comments will be welcomed. She can be reached at email@example.com.
Terry's work has appeared on SHINE! before.