Practically Home
Every blaze in fire season is practically home.
Each bee in the swarm is practically home.
Practically home holds no promise of arrival.
On the first day of jury duty, I get lost. On the second, I find myself in the Sonoma County Fairgrounds, with a couple of hundred others, sitting on folding chairs. It is during the pandemic. The case concerns a freeway crash. I tell the attorneys I am a poet and have a phobia of freeways.
The incident is a DUI. The attorneys ask all potential jurors whether we drink. I say I really like my chardonnay.
This is the defendent’s third DUI. Counsel informs the jurors about ankle bracelets and breathalyzers that prevent the car’s start if your breath is tainted. It seems magical, even erotic.
Sonoma is wine country. Tomás works in a winery, testing for alcohol content. His co-workers say on the night in question, they did not see him drink.
In the small hours of the morning, Tomás’s lover is waiting for him.
At 2:56 am, Tomás sends a text: “I am practically home.”
At 3:02 am, Tomás’s Dodge Durango smashes into Jessica’s Toyota Corolla sending it into the field next to the River Road exit on 101. The Durango’s electronics put his speed at 100 mph at the moment of impact. It spins to a stop 300 yards away on the median, facing north. When the Highway Patrol arrives, Tomás says he is practically home.
The breathalyzer says he is over the limit.
Jessica’s iphone looks like she was watching a video when the Toyota is hit. Twin child seats in the back are empty—it’s the twins’ third birthday.
Jessica and Tomás are both 33. Jessica will not get older.
In the thirteen weeks of jury duty, I make three friends: Margaret, Brigitte, and Pauline. I fail to attend deliberation or verdict because of appendicitis. I learn Tomás is guilty on all counts.
None of us attends sentencing. We meet for brunch: mimosas and croissants will take us practically home.
Practically home is our sutra and discipline.
