HOME by Linda Bomse

My car seemed to have a mind of its own as I left New York after spending a gorgeous morning just wandering around.

I’d left very early that Sunday and had arrived at 34^th and 3^rd where I knew I could sit outside and have breakfast at Cinema. My puppy Major would sit next to me as he had when Jerry was with me last year: watching the vendors set up booths for the street fair, straining to get at the larger dogs who passed, totally disinterested in this black and white bundle of energy.

The waitress: “Hi! I am Veronica. I will be your server today,” knelt to pet Major, left with my coffee order and emerged with coffee for me and water for the puppy. She took my order: scrambled egg whites very well done and scones with strawberry preserves and clotted cream. Against my son’s advice, I had totally spoiled Major and today would be no exception. I broke off little pieces of the omelet and slipped them to him as he sat beside me under the table.

I have always loved Sunday mornings in New York as the streets slowly awakened welcoming joggers, couples wheeling strollers, wheelchair bound elderly being taken out for an airing before it grew too hot, the requisite garbage picker carrying a huge black bag which he continued to load with discarded cans excised from the overflowing street corner trash containers.

After breakfast, I walked the street fair – starting as Jerry and I always had – even before most of the stalls were completely set up. We would wander at our own pace, agreeing to meet at the next corner if we had lost sight of each other. Invariably, he would buy sox: browns, beiges, navies and blacks with subtle patterns. Always the short ones – never the over the calf sox that I preferred because they prevented sock gap when he crossed his legs at work. But, I wasn’t the one who would be wearing them so I learned early in our relationship to butt out of his choices.

Today, no sox would be bought. My God, I thought, I could open my own stall with all the unworn pairs of socks I’d taken from his drawers in February as I prepared for the Big Brothers Big Sisters truck to come for donations. 100’s of sox, 100’s of shirts, dozens of sweaters and fleeces, windbreakers and handkerchiefs. He’d always used handkerchiefs, another item bought and bought again at these fairs.

Today, though, Major was my companion and, although he sniffed many other puppy butts, accepted the attention of well trained children who asked first if they could pet the puppy, as he had every time we had brought him with us, although the weather was perfect, although my favorite pocketbook vendor and the guy with the Fabulous Imposter jewelry were there, my wallet remained closed.

By noon, I was back in my car headed home. The car drove itself as Major fell asleep safely attached to a rear seat belt and I nibbled a leftover scone I’d saved from breakfast.

I daydreamed and turned off the Expressway at 135 North, known locally as the S.O.B. Turned right onto Jericho Turnpike toward Woodbury and left at the third light. At the end of the road, having passed the high school and the soccer field, I took a left and a quick right onto Cherry Lane, began up the hill and pulled over, suddenly aware that I had made a mistake.

I didn’t live here anymore.

There were no meandering paths to weed - no fish to feed – no Jerry.

I left to go to my new house in the town I’d moved to a couple of months before: a house I really liked.

But, not yet my home.