I take the long way home most nights. There's a light blue house with a sagging porch that I pass even when it's out of my way.
The ice scraper in my glovebox has been there since July. I don't know why I keep it.
My grandpa gave it to me the winter before he died. He was the one who taught me to fly—crop dusting, low and tight along the rows.
After he passed, his wife moved into town. The house went empty. But every time I drive past, I slow down.
I'm also the commissioner of our town's beer league. Sometimes the guys ask why I'm always late to the rink.
I tell them there's a house I check on. They don't get it. I'm not sure I do either.
Maybe I'm waiting for the house to need something. Or maybe I'm the one who needs to need something.
Either way, the ice scraper stays. And I keep circling.