[Beginning a new fiction project today; the title should come to me some time before I finish]
They had driven nearly two hours, Clarence Furrows and his son Andrew, the Camry’s satellite radio tuned to the soft jazz station which Clarence had recently discovered during his daily commute. Their shared silence was not unusal, as both were inclined to be quiet in the presence of comforting familiarity; besides, they had talked plenty that summer, not just to each other but also with Mary/Mom, Grampie and Grammie, Nana, Andrew’s aunts and uncles and siblings and cousins, and of course, the parole and admissions officers. Weeks before this journey back to campus had begun, everyone with an interest in Andrew’s future had agreed that the time for talk had come to an end, the young man was as ready as he could be to resume his studies, demonstrate that he’d learned from his mistakes. Time to walk the walk, not talk the talk, Grampie had said before embracing his grandson in one of his back-crushing hugs the night before, and as if inspired by the old man’s charge, or simply feeling tired from all the conversations over the past three months, both father and son had wordlessly agreed to let the mile markers pass in silence.