Heading home.
A big bathroom and big bathtub. A walk-in closet. My Camry. My bread maker and crockpot. Could I recreate the fried fruit pies and kolaches like the little bakery in Marathon, Texas? Familiar, quiet streets encircled by mountain ranges dusted with snow like the beignets I discovered the at Huck Finn’s in New Orleans)
Precious time with my sister, the one person I can call no
matter what time zone I park my rig.
Friends, who know my dreams and the obstacles to reach them.
Friends who watched me shuffle the pieces of my life around and around like a
magician playing a shell game, cheering me on no matter how long I slide the
shells from right to left, to center, back
to left, and right again. They cheer me on with a faith in me that I
don’t always possess.
My business that’s supported me forever. Like me, it grows
and changes, its roots burrowing ripples in the road.
A mural in Twenty-nine Palms, California. |
To veterans those two words are full of thankful prayers,
relief ,yet sadness for leaving behind a life few at home understand. Leaving stark,
24/7 fears, but also the tightest human bonds they will ever experience. Reuniting with loved ones but finding life has
gone on in their absence.
Heading home is about
change.