Returning Home

Thirty years and my forehead creased by the coal mines could not change the way she reached her arms around my neck when I returned home. We held each other. I felt old, for my boots had stained the tile floor, still spotless though yellowed. She slid her fingers into the back pocket of my jeans and pulled out a chunk of coal. I had not known it was there. The angry black smudged across her delicate fingers and slipped out of her hand. I felt her become light, I began to cry, and she faded longingly from my arms.