Early mornings in the mountains are cold, even in August. So I took Mom’s advice and pulled on my pink fleece, a hand-me-down from Chanelle, and appreciated the crisp bite against my bare legs as we walked out the door.
Mornings are lovely, and as a strictly non-morning-person, I don’t see too many. But I savored this one: the trees in the yard seemed that much more moist, prickly, and dark, spicy like chocolate, and I don’t know how long it will be before I see them again. The gravel crunched appropriately on the driveway, and the the primary school’s loud-speaker familiarly blared out the announcements for the day. That too, will be gone.
Even in the bakery for breakfast after we finished our walk, Mom pointed out where the cream and coffee stirrers resided next to the window. I found it odd that she felt the need to explain these details when I have eaten at Well-Bread for years.
Weaverville is saying good-bye, finally after a year of living with one foot at the Abbey and one foot here at home. Home. Where I grew up.
I can’t wait to make my bed tomorrow in O’Connell. I shall unfold my quilt, tape up my “Shit” poster, arrange my mugs on the bookshelf, and probably feel ridiculously homesick. But homesick for where?
There is an owl hooting somewhere through my open window, and he makes me feel lonely. I remember the Great Horned Owl that would come and sit on the pine tree by the barn. But then the barn burned one night, and he never came back. It has been a long time since I heard an owl.
Instead, I take morning walks with my mother, and picnic on the parkway, and wonder when it happened that she feels less like my mother and more like a very close, very old friend. The kind of mentor one hopes to find when joining a new church.
During dinner Mom and Dad talk about work, Mom’s nursing certification, the house, and I realize that their marriage no longer has much to do with me. They have done their job. And while they shall always want me to come visit, always be there to listen, to cheer me on, to give advice, they have their own life. A new honeymoon, as it were, the rediscovery of life beyond children and eighteen years of homeschooling.
The trailer is packed. I have one outfit left to wear tomorrow. My precious books are layered into apple boxes, and my journals are hidden away so securely that I can’t remember where I put them. Sylvia is quiet tonight, and Teddy knows that he shall be left on my bed. Waiting for when I come home.
