Where Is Home to Me?

We cannot have reconciliation without first having truth.

I.

I climb back into my minivan, fumbling with my keys. My face is blazing, my breath coming in short bursts, fevered and sour on my tongue and in that moment I don’t know whether I want to explode in a stream of expletives or lay my head down on the steering wheel and weep. Maybe both. My mom is waiting in the passenger seat and I relay my story to her, words tumbling out of my mouth blistering with rage.

Minutes before I’d stood in line at the post office waiting for the one working clerk at the counter to receive mail, figure out where people’s packages went and sell stamps to the customers in front of me. I’d left my phone in the car and without it I stared blankly at the cards and bubblewrap for sale on the shelves.

“Well, at least he’s not afraid to tell it like it is, he’s not going to cow-tow to some liberal agenda,” the man a few people in front of me says in a voice that carries and echoes through the tiny post office. “He’s not a career politician and although I may not agree with some things he says or the way he says them, he’s what this country needs to get back on the right path,” he booms.

The man behind him nods his head along. The conversation continues, their voices swelling and overlapping in that small space. I move a few steps forward as another customer finishes. I’m almost there. The woman behind me scrolls through her phone lazily and rolls her eyes in their direction, it’s hard to ignore their voices, meant not just for their conversation but for everyone to hear and know where they stand. They are making a point.

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