by Bruce Boston

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He knew it wouldn’t be the same as before. It would have changed like everything. He hoped there wouldn’t be so many dull adjectives.

Of course they would know him. He was well south of being a megastar yet had produced a visible body of work that most actors would covet. There would be congratulations. There would be ceremonies celebrating his return. Too many ceremonies. One would be too many. There would be the old house and what remained of the family inside, love it or leave it.

He saw it in black and white, each image a still photograph with shadows etched.

The cherry trees would blossom, their white petals littering a landscape that by now must have faded. The air would smell different yet familiar. The trains would seem less distant. He wondered if he had ever lived there.

His single bag was packed. He was waiting for the limo to arrive and take him to the airport. His agent called from New York with a part he could not decline.

Kyle poured himself a drink. His single bag was packed. All he had to do was change his flight.