Sunday Night Dropoff

I drive to the usual dropoff spot on Sunday. The children laugh, discussing the day behind us. I turn the car down a side street to hear them giggle, just a little bit more, to ease the depart ahead. Often, I dream of driving past the appointed spot. Just driving south, away, to the highway. I see dark water fishing, underneath the lights of a drawbridge. I see jet travel rising, above the lights of a runaway. I see a family in a warm house to the north, sitting before the light of a fireplace hearth. But, tonight, I am in a car for dropoff. I turn into the lot, pick a spot, and wait. The familiar fast food grease turns my stomach. The reappearing oil slicks blacken my feet. The incessant buzzing spotlight makes me feel like a creature on a wheel, in a cage, with absolutely no escape. We hug. They leave. I go. And my car and I drive back from where we came, in the dark, on the road, and utterly all alone.