C is for Crazy Town

Crazy Town

The second I step from the Greyhound bus I taste regret. It’s coppery like blood, which is fitting since I’ve arrived in Crazy Town, where my family lives.

Five years ago, I couldn’t get away quickly enough. Now here I am, the proverbial dog with tail between its legs, seeking forgiveness. Or something.

Mom makes her infamous grilled cheese since I arrive at lunchtime. She smiles at me. No condemnations. No telling me that I’ve messed up my life—again.

“You’re so pretty, but you look tired,” she says.

The grilled cheese is just as delicious as I remember.

One of Mom’s cats jumps on her lap. “Everyone’s so happy that you’ve come back for a visit.”

I keep waiting for the other shoe to fall. It doesn’t.

My little sister, Elle, appears and hugs me, despite the last thing she said to me was how selfish I was.

Three hours later. Dad comes in. I swear there’s a tear in his eye.

At dinner, we laugh over the silly songs Elle and I used to make up. There are smiles. Laughter.


There’s no crazy in Crazy Town. A thought slowly dawns on me: Maybe the crazy was me.


end 4/3/2018

Sascha Darlington


20 thoughts on “C is for Crazy Town

  1. Pingback: C is for Crazy Town – The Militant Negro™

  2. Such a lovely story, Sascha. Sometimes, it is in our most difficult moments that we realise the value of family. I am so happy she is here, with the ones that love her, without keeping counts.

    Liked by 1 person

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