I'm standing at the bus shelter on Main, the one with the cracked plexiglass that never keeps the rain out.
It's that dead hour between lunch and dinner service, when the casino buffet goes quiet and the whole town holds its breath.
I called your old number, the one that's been disconnected for two years now. I guess I just wanted to hear the recording of your voice again.
I still have the books you borrowed from me back in 2018. Three of them. They're in a plastic bag in my trunk, getting damp.
You said you'd return them. I never reminded you because I didn't want to be the nagging mother again.
I taught third grade for thirty years and I always told my students to return what they borrow. But I never could teach you that lesson.
The rain is coming through the roof of this shelter, same as it did the night you left town on the Greyhound.
I'm not asking for the books back. I'm not asking for anything. I just wanted you to know this shelter still leaks, and someone is still sitting in it, thinking about you.