Towards The Horizon (Or Maybe Just Home)
Suddenly, she's in an empty car.
Going back to an empty home.
Suddenly, it's quiet. And a glorious summer sun is rising in her windshield mirror and all she can think about is a fragile little girl with bright blue eyes taking wobbly steps through the lobby of the Independence Inn as the first snow of the season whirls in the darkening window.
She drives. Drives and drives, and it doesn't matter where she's going or how she'll get there or when she'll go back, for now all that matters is that she stays in motion, and with every road sign that blurs by, it's like a little more weight is lifted from her.
You did good, she thinks to herself. She's sixteen years old again, speeding on the road from Hartsfield to Stars Hollow while her daughter gurgles beside her. It's the same sort of rush, the same dizzying finality of something being irrevocably over, of a new life starting that she can't even imagine.
This time, though, she's alone. No little girl to make her laugh and work and live, no trusting hands closing around hers, convinced that she can do anything just because she's who she is. No sweet, sticky kisses and clumsy hands petting hers, and, sleepy murmurs of "Love Mommy" as she switches off the nightlight and crawls under the covers next to her daughter.
She can't imagine what's going to happen next. Still. You've given me all I need, Mom. She did good, building a life for the two of them. Building another new life, for herself, and maybe, maybe another, a different kind of two-of-them - and does she dare hope that she won't be all alone this time either, that there will be bickering and scratchy kisses and soft flannel shirts to hide her face when she wakes from a mean dream?- won't be so hard.
Lorelai blinks back tears, and races the horizon all the way back to Stars Hollow.
