Journey Back Home

As the bus pulled into town in the early morning, Michael stepped onto the cracked concrete of the station, carrying one backpack, with no plan, and the cold air cutting into him. He welcomed the sting, reminding him he was somewhere, still alive.

Everything seemed smaller and quieter than Michael remembered. It had been fifteen years since he stood where he stood now. Fifteen years since he drunkenly stumbled into his father's garage and found him collapsed, lying on the floor, not noticing the faint rise and fall of his chest until it was too late. That image had played over a thousand times in his mind without mercy; if only he could go back in time and change the outcome.

He wasn't expecting a welcoming party or forgiveness to be extended to him, but he didn't expect the morning light to land on the rooftops, giving a feeling of promise.

If you find yourself back in town, I could use some help in the shop. We all make mistakes. Some, more than others. Please call me if you're interested in working together.

—Helen

Helen Jacobs was an art teacher in high school, the kind who remembers your name long after you leave. She was the only one who cared enough to stay in touch; people in town were talking and thought he was poisoned.

After a short drive, he found the shop, Canvas & Clay, at the corner of Main and Birch. When he pushed open the door, the bell chimed softly. The smell of oil paint and firing clay filled his nose, and sunlight streamed over the lines of pottery and paintings.

“Oh,” Helen said as she came out from behind a counter, looking a little older, but with silver hair and still bright eyes. “You made it.”

“I… wasn’t sure I should.”

“That's the thing about fresh starts,” she said. "They never happen when you are ready for them.”

Work at the shop was simple and repetitive. Unpacking boxes, stocking shelves, sweeping the floor. Sometimes, when no one was watching, he might get distracted and go to the back wall where Helen kept all the student art paintings, which she didn’t have the heart to throw away.

Nestled amongst bright watercolour paintings and juvenile clay bowls, he recognized one of his old paintings: one solitary fishing boat in a bruised sky. He remembered painting that during the summer before it all fell apart.

One afternoon, Helen caught him staring at it. “You had talent,” she said. “I bet you still do."

"I haven’t picked up a paintbrush in fifteen years. "

“Then maybe you should.” She pointed to the back, where an empty work table was. “Just start small and see what happens.”

Initially, his hands felt clunky and unsure. But as the days went on, he grew surer in the strokes that he painted. The smell of paint and the mixtures of colour beneath his paintbrush stirred something that had been asleep far too long.

Not everyone met him with open arms.

The cashier at the grocery store would not look at him. An old neighbour crossed to the other side of the street when she noticed him coming. And then there was his younger sister, Emily.

She had been nineteen when he left; her life was disrupted by the impact of both father and brother leaving. Now she was thirty-four, a nurse with a small son, and he decided to call her. She seemed polite, but there was an emotional distance between them.

They finally got together at a local café, on her suggestion. She arrived late and took a seat at the table opposite him, without even a smile.

"I heard you're working for Helen," she said.

"Yeah, trying to keep busy."

There was a moment of silence. Finally, she asked, "Why now, Michael? Why come back here?"

He didn't have a quick answer. "Because.... I didn't want to run anymore. And maybe—" He paused. "Maybe I wanted to see if there was anything worth building back."

Her eyes softened slightly, "Building back is about more than just showing up."

Weeks turned into months. His schedule was set. Mornings at the shop, and afternoons in the corner of the studio, Helen gave him. Other customers began to notice his work and, over time, started asking him if the paintings were for sale. Eventually, Helen convinced him to hang two in the front window.

Then came a rainy Thursday. A boy came in with his mother. The boy looked like he was at least eight years old. He had busy hands, like he couldn’t keep them still. He walked in and stopped in front of Michael’s painting of a lighthouse and just stared.

“You made this?” he said.

“Yeah,” Michael said. “Do you like it?”

The boy nodded. “Looks… safe. Like nothing bad can happen there.”

At that moment, something shifted in Michael’s chest. For so long, he had lived with the shadow of the worst night of his life. And now here was a child who saw in his painting not the wreckage of that night, but the safety of the shore he had always longed for.

That autumn evening was the real turning point. Helen locked the shop up early, and they sat in the shop with mugs of tea.

"You've been holding your breath for fifteen years," she said. "When are you going to breathe out?

"I don't know if I can."

"You can," she said resolutely. "But you have to talk to Emily again. Talk, not just polite conversation, brother and sister talk."

He shuddered at the idea, yet he left the shop that night and walked to Emily's house. Her son, Jack, answered the door, looking pretty wide-eyed. "Mum! There's a man here--"

Emily appeared with a quick, surprised look.

"I just need to tell you what happened that night," Michael said in a raw voice. "Not what I told the police. What I was feeling."

Hours went by while they sat at her kitchen table. He told her about the years that led up to that night, the difficulties their father had experienced with his heart problems, and Michael's descent into drinking after he was let go from his position. How he found their father collapsed, but, in his drunken state, thought he was already gone. The paramedics had arrived too late.

"I've lived with that guilt every day," he said. "And I know that saying sorry doesn't take away from it. But I want you to understand that it was not because I didn't care. I cared so much it destroyed me."

Emily's face was wet with tears. "You should have told me sooner."

"I was nervous you'd hate me more."

"I did," she said. "For a long time. But... maybe we can start again. For Jack. And for us."

Emily began to invite him over for dinner. Jack showed him his school drawings, and Michael helped him mix paint. In Emily's backyard, they planted a small herb garden.

At the shop, Michael's paintings began to sell. Not in huge numbers, but enough for him to pay rent and buy a second-hand bicycle. He began teaching a weekend art class for kids, and the boy who liked the lighthouse painting was his most excited student.

Now and then, though, he would still wake in the middle of the night with his father's face in his head. New beginnings didn't erase the past—they just left it in other places to rest.

The next spring, Helen announced they were hosting a community art show. "You have to enter," she told Michael, making it very clear this was not open for discussion.

On opening night, the shop was alive with voices. People who had once looked at him with contempt were blowing air kisses at him and stopping to ask about his work. Emily stood next to him with her hand resting lightly on his arm. Jack was zipping around the room, pointing out his favourite pieces to anyone who would listen.

As the evening was about to wrap up, Michael overheard someone's comments. "I never thought he would get back here, let alone be part of the community again."

He didn't turn around. He didn't need to. It stung, but beyond the comment, there was something else: recognition. Maybe even the first threads of acceptance.

Months later, Michael found himself standing again on the same cracked cement sidewalk outside the bus terminal where his story had begun. The morning light spilled over the rooftops beyond the bus terminal just as it did that very first day.

A second chance was not about doing everything right; it was about making something worth living for, despite all the mistakes that had been made. When he arrived at the shop, he found himself standing there in the middle of the street with air filling his lungs for the first time in 15 years.

The day belonged to him - and he was going to use it.