Homecoming

I’ve had a recurring dream over the past several years. Initially, I found it perplexing because it’s nothing I’d go to bed thinking about, and I really can’t say it was weighing on my mind.

At least, I thought it wasn’t.

Now, I’m not so sure.

In the dream, it’s always the wee hours of a moonless night. I’m driving through the back roads of rural Iowa, heading home in an old car, making my way along a route I know like I know my own name. I’ve driven it countless times in waking life.

An intersection approaches on the left, so I signal for the turn and begin the slow climb up a long, familiar rise. I soon enter the tiny hamlet of Exline—where I lived until I moved away to college—and find myself driving down its dark and deserted main street.

Passing by the old post office and town park, I approach a T-intersection at the end of the road. On the far side sits the old Christian church where I once attended Vacation Bible School as a child, spending afternoons painting newly made impressions of my hand—a gift for my mother, cast in plaster of Paris poured into a paper plate. Beyond the churchyard lies the cemetery where many of my relatives and ancestors are laid to rest. I wonder if perhaps someday I’ll join them there.

I wonder.

At the intersection, I turn right, as I always do, and pick up speed—heading south down the highway, pitch black save for my headlights. I squint into the darkness, struggling to see the road ahead clearly. The lights seem dimmer than they should be—twin beams vanishing into the night.

No matter. It’s a straight shot south. I know it so well, I could drive it blindfolded.

Eventually, I descend into the last little valley—if the low draw between two gentle Iowa hills can be said to be a valley at all—before cresting a rise where the highway levels out. In the distance off to the left, the stark glow of a mercury vapor yard light peeks through a large grove of trees that separates my grandparents’ farmhouse from our own.

The grove where my father once built a treehouse for me.

The grove where we had family bonfires and picnics on warm summer evenings.

The grove where I once helped my grandmother pick gooseberries for jam.

The grove where . . . well, anyway.

Now the driveway entrance comes into view and I slow down to make the turn.

Huh, that’s strange.

The lamppost that stands nearby is dark. Mom always leaves it turned on when she knows I’m coming home.

I ease the car along the short stretch of gravel and park in front of the garage. As I get out and step onto the sidewalk, I can hear the low chirping of crickets and cicadas in the pasture beyond the fence that surrounds the yard, a familiar and welcoming sound.

Climbing the steps to the back porch, I discover the door is unlocked. Mom must have known I don’t have a key anymore. I can’t say when for sure, but I have a dim recollection of misplacing it a long time ago.

Pushing the door open, I step into the tiny entryway and turn to my left toward the kitchen. I’m immediately aware that the only illumination in the house is the ghostly white light from the mercury vapor lamp in the backyard, filtering through the window blinds. If she knew I was going to be late, Mom would’ve left the light on for me over the kitchen sink.

Perhaps she’s forgotten I was coming home?

Walking through the inky shadows of the kitchen, I hear a dry crackling noise under my feet that makes my skin crawl.

What could it be?

I look down and see I’m wading ankle-deep through a drift of dried leaves—as if on a blustery autumn day, someone left the doors and windows wide open and they’d blown in. They cover the floor completely, crunching underfoot like delicate hollow bones.

Beyond the kitchen, I turn down the hallway and notice the portraits on the wall—the same ones my mother has displayed there for years. I look closely at them, but try as I might, I see only vague, shadowy figures. It’s so dark in the house, I can’t make them out. My breath begins to come in ragged gasps.

I stumble past the murky photographs to the end of the hall. There the door to my childhood bedroom stands ajar. As I push it open, I’m surprised to find the room completely empty. My bed, my desk, the bookcases, an Emerson stereo set I once got as a Christmas present—all of it gone.

I turn to face back up the hall, crying out. I never remember what I’m saying exactly. Am I calling for my mother? My father? Perhaps I’m just shouting, “Where is everybody?”

I’m not certain, but it feels like a combination of all these things—yet somehow more.

I wait in the dark for an answer, but none ever comes. The house remains silent.

Shuffling from one empty room to another, I search for something to sit down upon—then realize there’s no furniture anywhere to be found. Save for the dead leaves strewn all about, the place is a vacant shell.

Where IS everyone?

I thought they knew I was coming home.

Eventually, I return to the back porch, stopping to gaze at the fields behind the house where I once played under the summer sun—fields now dark and silent as the graveyard at the old church.

And then I understand.

No one is waiting for me here.

They’ve all gone, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t recall where they went.

How could they leave without me?

I want to cry, but I don’t seem to be able to—like I don’t know how. The grief is buried in my chest and I can’t get it out, no matter what I do.

And then I remember.

They left a long, long time ago.

No one lives here now.

I can’t come home anymore.