The Drive Home

There is something I need to write down, so that it stays in my memory. I'm writing it first of all for myself, and with the hope that someday it might help someone else.

For a long time, my drive home from work took about an hour. I made it alone, every evening, in slow traffic, with the city lights coming on around me. And almost every evening, somewhere on that road, the darkness would come.

It didn't knock. It simply arrived and filled the car. It became hard to breathe. My body started to shake. Tears ran down my face, and I couldn't stop them. There was only one thought left in my head: just get home. Just get home.

What I remember most is the fear. A huge, heavy fear that wrapped around me and held me like a vise. No hope. No way out. Nothing seemed to help. I didn't understand what was happening to me. I only knew that I was completely alone with it, in a small metal box, in a line of red lights that wouldn't move.

Over time, I learned one thing. I learned to call.

Most of the time, I called my son. I would say just one word:

Talk.

And he would. He talked about things I couldn't follow at the time, about anything and nothing. He never asked questions, because he knew I couldn't answer them. He just kept talking.

His voice brought me back.

Now, looking back, it almost feels like a dream. Like it happened to someone else. But I know it was a real place. I lived there for a long time.

If you are in that car right now, in whatever form your car takes, I want you to know that you don't have to explain anything. You don't need the right words. Sometimes one word is enough.

Call someone. Say talk. Let their voice hold you until you're home.

With love, from HerWay

If this story touched you

Six Green LightsWhere My Feet Touched the Ground

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