Homeless Heart

Lizzie let me drive her car over to her parents. Her trusting me to drive was a big deal to me, and it made me happy. I drove cautiously and held her hand when I wasn't white knuckling the steering wheel. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed driving. Lizzie grew up in Marin County, across the Golden Gate Bridge, which was the home of the hippies in the sixties and the invention of the hot tub in the seventies. Now it was the home of over-priced housing and entitled yuppies. When we pulled up in front of Lizzie's parent's house, I was impressed with how happy a home it seemed just from the outside. No wonder Lizzie was such a loving person, she'd had this to come home to every day. My house growing up was like a museum; it never felt like anyone lived there. Ghosts occupied it. There was no love in my house, only sadness and anger most days.

The house was a classic two-story arts and crafts style, with a nicely kept front yard with peony bushes running along the outside of the house. The porch had beautiful Adirondack chairs, to sit and enjoy the view of the bay and the top of the ridge in the distance.

As we walked up to the door, she had such a sweet smile on her face. I tightened my grip on her hand. "Now I know why you like peonies."

"Yeah, I always loved these bushes when I was growing up. Mom spoils these flowers. She loves her gardening. She says it keeps her sane and from killing my dad." She squeezed my hand as it swung between us. "Relax, they'll love you," she whispered as she knocked on the door. "Just breathe."

All I could do was smile at her, hoping she was right.