Not as an instruction. As a memory.
Drive. You. 7. Home.
When I was seventeen, my grandfather would say that before every road trip: “Drive you seven home” — his old-country way of saying take the long way back, the way that lets you breathe before you arrive. driveyou7home
If this post hit something in you, take the keys. Drive your own seven miles. And come home — not to a building, but to the person you’ve been missing. Not as an instruction
I hadn’t thought about that phrase in years. But there it was, floating up through the dark like a lifeline. driveyou7home