Lost.

We drove three hours in the wrong direction. A disaster. Twelve hours from home, from glass cabinets, blue walls, and new chandeliers. Being lost; my least favorite feeling. A whitecap of anxiety. The sea brimmed on my lashes. My hands shook like pebbles on swaying cliffs. Redundant actions. Eyes repeatedly glancing at digital numbers. One minute, two minutes, twelve minutes closer. Cement filled my stomach. Heartless wind blew white flakes in our direction. We endured. When our lids were heavy, I tapped the breaks. I turned off the cruise. We watched the charcoal sky and traced constellations, succumbing to sleep on a deserted road. On an empty road. Daylight left us long ago, dissolving in the rear view mirror. Snow fell harder, and so did the trembling needle, ten miles an hour. Ultimately though, we made it home. Home to crinkled sheets, red lamps, and a scalding shower.
Being home; my favorite feeling.