A road was an odd thing to remember from one’s childhood, especially one you never lived on. Yet for Tom Marrow the tight turns and rolling pitch of the narrow stone road down were as unforgettable to him as any monumental he had ever seen in his life. This was what he had told his wife with supreme confidence, his foot pressed down on the gas to urge the old sedan back towards his father’s farmhouse where the family waiting for Christmas dinner.
Frustrated he swore at the phone after hanging it up. He remembered telling his wife to pick up the second back of presents from the hall closet before she set off with the children. Had she just done what he told her they all would have been settled an hour ago instead of him having to run all the way back to the city to fetch it. Somewhere at the back of his mind he reminded himself it wasn’t her fault, still as he slowed to round a sharp bend he couldn’t quite forgive her yet. She had of course apologized but he had inherited his father’s penchant for holding a grudge, amongst his other vices, so he had decided to indulge himself in the nastiness of it till he reached the drive. Then like a mature adult he would set it all aside to enjoy the holiday.
This would be easy enough with his wife and kids but his father would be another story. Some grudges were more difficult to let go it seemed, perhaps our maturity in such matters were in some odd way dependent on when the grudge began. Absently he wished his mother could have been there, then said a silent prayer for her.
Making the final turn he could see the narrow drive cut out along the rolling snow in the distance. The house sat nestled in a small grove of pines, its historic stone facade with red trim resembling all a country farm house should at Christmas. Twirls of smoke rose from the chimneys which bracketed the gentle slope of the roof in the traditional style. Keeping his promise, he set his frustrations aside with a sigh.
It was as he turned down the drive that he noticed with near disinterest the door ajar. The kids were in and out of the house so often he was sure one of them had left it open. He groaned again then saw the frail figure of his father in the doorway holding something. A letter, who wrote letters anymore he said derisively. It was as he parked he noticed his wife’s car was gone. Concern had begun to bubble at the back of his mind as Tom walked towards the house.
His father met him in the snow, tears streaming down his face he passed him the letter. He tried to speak but Tom had gone deaf to anything aside from the sound of his own pulse reverberating in his head. Trembling he read the first line of the letter, then sunk to his knees. He knew what the rest would say and he couldn’t bear to face it. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder and wondered if his son held a grudge against him.
Macadam: a roadway or pavement of small closely packed broken stone originating in Scotland
Author’s Note: 4/365
The Flask/Pen 