57 Midwestern Goodbye by Rebecca Neely I always linger at home. Instead of driving back to my dorm, I drink another cup of tea or wash the dinner dishes. My parents aren’t doing anything special; they grade papers, watch Star Trek, and do the dishes every night. I’ve already hung out with everyone: worked on a story outline with Noah, talked about books and magic systems with Matthew, looked at things with Kirsten, told jokes at dinner with Thaddeus and David. But I fear that’s not enough. I sit on the kitchen counter and find something more to talk about with my mom. This is the only way I know of to tell my family I’ve enjoyed their company. Finally, I give everyone another hug and tell them I’ll be back, and my dad stands in the open garage door as I pull down the lane. He stands silhouetted against yellow light in my rearview and I honk, twice. The silhouette waves. It’s odd that I postpone the last moment when I also postpone the first one. As I pull in the gravel lane our tabby cat, Friday, trots in front of my car. She meets me in the middle of the driveway and when I crouch down and hold out
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