Tabitha Stay With Me Direct

“I’m here now,” I say.

She looks at the car. Then back at me. Then at the house—our house—with the light still on in the kitchen, the two dinner plates still on the table, the food gone cold an hour ago. tabitha stay with me

It lands with a dull thud on the wet grass. She doesn’t pick it up. She walks toward me, slow at first, then faster. Her yellow raincoat is soaked through. When she reaches me, she doesn’t hug me. She puts her cold hands on my face, looks me in the eye, and says: “I’m here now,” I say

The rain doesn't knock anymore. It just starts—a sudden, heavy curtain that turns the driveway into a river of loose gravel and last autumn’s leaves. I am standing in the open doorway, the screen door whining on its hinge, and I am saying it again. Then at the house—our house—with the light still