Therapy Bits

The night my father left, the garage light stayed on. I was twelve, counting oil stains like constellations, waiting for footsteps that never came. His jacket hung on a nail, smelling of gasoline and winter. I tried it on, sleeves swallowing my hands, and imagined myself taller, braver, capable of starting engines and endings.

Outside, rain stitched the driveway to the road. A car passed, then another, each one a possible return. I learned patience by listening to the drip from a leaky can, the tick of cooling metal, the quiet bravery of staying.

Years later, the house belongs to me. I keep the light off now. The jacket is gone, but sometimes the air remembers him. When I pull in at night, I pause, hands on the wheel, and choose not to leave. The engine sighs. The dark agrees. Silence settles, forgiving mistakes, teaching me how home is made.

https://mymindmappings.com/2025/12/12/fowc-with-fandango-gasoline/