She walked in and sat on the bed, bouncing up and down a few times. There were no wayward coils or squeaks. It would do. A baby ben alarm clock ticked the seconds on the nightstand, a wind up model, and she wondered who had wound it last.
She reached for the clock, but her eyes landed on her ring finger and she let the hand fall to her lap. She twisted the rings in circles —they’d almost gotten too big and seemed heavier, as if iron not gold.
Something outside the window caught the sun, throwing lasers of light that blinded her briefly before swinging across the walls, ceiling, and bedspread. She smoothed the worn blue cotton throw, and wondered who had slept here last.
The hours on the road to get here had worn her out. Although the last three were the most fatiguing, they’d been her favorite part. The road followed a river, with rocky cliffs rising on either side. Before coming into town, the river widened to a lake, Loon Lake on the sign, and her deja vu had turned into a memory’s journey back home to Maine where the pine trees filled miles in all directions, as far as you could imagine, they stretched and the loons called their ghostly call in the evenings.
Had she come home? Had she found a home to replace the one she’d left so long ago and yesterday?
She spun the rings on her finger and touched the brown spots on the back of her hand. No longer young, she thought, I have my grandmother’s hands, now, liver spots and all.