It had been sixteen years since he had been home for Thanksgiving, and this year was the same. The road less traveled was best for him. He had, he thought, become quite insane. The booze had taken its toll, He was sick very often, the pills he took, the needles he injected, why, he couldn't even remember their names. He remembered a mom, he remembered a dad, But nothing seemed the same. He lived on the streets, ate when he could, when it ws time to sleep, he found a pile of wood. His basket now was almost empty. Everything gone. He couldn't let them see him like this, so, again this year, he wasn't going home. Scroll down for Part 2

PART ~2~ It has been a month almost since he thought about Thanksgiving and going home. He thought no more about it, until he realized the time was upon him for Christmas. Lord, it has been sixteen years, do you think I could try Christmas this year? I seem to remember a little boy, but, that little boy is a man now, no more wagons or boats, no more memories of dad. I really would like to see him, and, his Mom. Perhaps the old folks too. He envisioned the looks on their faces, so sad, so disgusted or, maybe this year, hope? The brown, leathery look he has now would it scare them, or would they turn away in disgust? Heck, I sure ain't got no money to take such a trip, perhaps just a phone call, if I can remember the number, or, even the address. My memory sure has shortened, he thought. Talking to myself ain't good either. But the days are going faster, he reckoned, as he huddled on the steam vent, trying to get just a draft of warmth, but, there's noone here to hear me, so, I guess it is ok. Maybe just one more drink, one more hit, and I could muster up the courage to call. But, will the devil's spawn be welcomed? I know my boy doesn't believe in Santa now, as she always told him the truth. Why did she always spoil everything? Or, did I tell him? I don't know. What? Who's there? What did you say? He looked around and saw noone, nothing except a flashlight beam, only brighter, moving closer and getting brighter. Hello? who are you? I can barely see you with that light. Please turn it off. I'm seeing things again, he thought. Then a voice, a majestic voice said, "My son? My son?" But, I'm sure my old man is gone by now. "I am the father," responded the figure in the light. "I have come to take you home." "But, I'm not ready," he cried. "No, my son, just to see your earthly home one more time." "They are ready, but I'm not," he cried. "Look," said the father. He glanced down, saw himself in a new suit and shoes. He was clean, dressed and ready to go. "Why?" I ask. "It is time my son." They made the journey together, and as he rang the doorbell, he felt a pain rip through his chest. He was lying on the front step of his home and a beautiful lady was holding him. A young man stood by his side. Tears were in their eyes, and a smile on his face began to spread. They hugged him closer. Then, he realized, 'I'm dead. I'm home for the holidays, Lord. Take me home.'

PART ~3~ As I wrote the first segments of this story, I was thinking about my oldest brother. He would always promise to come to my house for the holidays, but, never did, as he was a heavy drinker. He didn't do drugs to my knowledge, but was an alcoholic. On Tuesday, the week of Thanksgiving, he said he was going with friends to have dinner, so I didn't check on him. He lived right behind me, which made this so much harder to write. The following Monday night, the police broke down his back door and went into his home. He was in bed, a half cup of coffee and a book by his side. He had died in his sleep. Now he has gone home for Christmas. His true home. Merry Christmas If you enjoyed this story, read our stories and poems by clicking HERE.