Slowly, one foot in front of the other, she begins the last part of her journey.  And with each step, “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.”

She starts down Main, one bag on her shoulder, the other in her hand.

Agate.  Six roads. Main, 1st, 2nd and 3rd Streets, 1st and 2nd Avenue.

She hesitates. then grabs her belongings.

Suddenly the bus driver pulls over. “AGATE!” he hollers.

Wallce, Sharon Springs, Weskan, Arapahoe, Cheyenne Wells, Firstview, Kit Carson, Wildhorse.      Wildhorse!  Smaller than her hometown, if that was possible.  Four white buildings and a church.  Always a church!

As the towns became familiar, her heart beats faster.

Maybe she should just stay on the bus.  Ride to California.

Perhaps she should jump ship early.  Get lost again.

“I’m sorry.  I’m sorry.” repeats in her head like a gutter drip falling on concrete — slowly over time creating a water-filled hole.

Traveling on monotonous roads, time slows down so that each minute feels like an hour.  Each hour an eternity.

She prays she’ll find forgiveness.  She dares not hope for anything more.

The last words she ever spoke in that place still ring in her ears.  Words of anger.

She’s coming home.

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NaPoWriMo — Day Twenty-Eight:  Write a poem that tells a story. But here’s the twist – the story should be told backwards. The first line should say what happened last, and work its way through the past until you get to the beginning.

I’m late with this poem.  It was handwritten, but I didn’t have time yesterday to type it out here.

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