shy anne

She sat, alone, in her room, the small, spare one she took for the night on the third floor of the boarding house in old downtown Cheyenne and listened to Neil Young sing in that rough, caustic, wilderness voice about affairs of the heart and some of the soul, and she wondered where her whole life had gone in such a quick instant. She was 47 and she had just enough money left for a bus ticket back to Minot, with maybe a sandwich or two along the way. She smiled, softly, sadly, fingered the medal that hung around her neck. She wished, now, tonight, at this very moment, that she might be able to redo so many things. She wanted to hug her children like she hadn’t, before. She wanted to listen to the birds, for once, really listen. She wanted to be home, really home, not just be there. But home was such a long, long way. Home. And everything else. She answered a knock on the door. A man she’d met, earlier, at a local bar. A drifter, like she. Sure, she said, why not. Home could wait. So must tomorrow. She needed to be held, tonight, and he would have to do.