Home

His mind was made up: claustrophobia had set in, and he could not abide the apartment for one minute longer. Such were his powers of persuation that Jimmy had Jamey and me out in the drizzling rain Thursday morning, loading all of our wordly possessions (in Atlanta, at least) into the back of our blue Buick van. We were going home.

We had managed to accumulate a fair amount of stuff in the eight months we had rented the apartment, and by the time we had piled it all in, it was raining in earnest; we had barely accessed I-75 at 14th Street before it had become a deluge. The entire trip home was a white-knuckled effort to avoid being blinded by jets of water spun from the tires of the endless procession of eighteen-wheelers.

Jimmy feels better already, sleeping in his own bed, and even though I feared that we were pushing things too quickly, I'm glad to be here, too. Jimmy has given notice to vacate the apartment, so when we go back to Atlanta in two weeks for an appointment, we'll stay at a hotel. But for now, there's no place like home.