home

“It’s gone, 
but I knew it when I had it, 
when the island was my home, 
and every morning the seagulls woke me.”

-Mary Stolz

I've been back home a few times since I left. And I can count the times on both hands; mostly because of lack of money, not because I didn't want to go back. I’m very morose because it's been almost four years since I've been home. Although, it isn't really "home" it is still my motherland. Hardly anyone is still there. And the fact that the house is gone is so horrible to me. We had a lovely plot of land on the edge of town. We had cats and a dog, and rabbits; and we grew wonderful gardens every year, and there were apricots and apple trees. But my mother was never satisfied. She always wanted to be in the country. We were on the edge of town, basically in the country. After searching for a "house in the country" for our most of our childhood, she decided that nothing was good enough and mortgaged the house to move it to the country. The house was built in the early 1900's and is such a beautiful beast. It should not have been moved from its roots in that town. My grandfather built a house in that town. My ancestors are buried there. My grandparents, and aunts and uncles; my great grandmother is there. My lineage is filled with pioneers. They carved out their lives in the wilderness. They moved it, cutting down the two majestic sycamore trees in the front yard. It now sits at a plot in the middle of the country about ten miles away. On a hill. Alone. They lived there, until my sister left, and then my brothers. My mother sold it after they divorced. I would have loved to have kept it in the family.

When I go home to my motherland, I always to go to Rockville. I visit my kinsmen's graves. I go to the spot where I grew up. I go to that empty plot covered in weeds, and overgrown with grass, with all the junk accumulated. And I weep. I weep for everything that was, everything that could have been, and everything that I miss about home. Home to me is my childhood. It’s not something truly tangible. It’s something that cannot be explained. But I sit there on the roof of that old garage, and weep. There are so many things I would do differently, that I can't ever go back and do. And it's horrible.

hope

"Hope" is the thing with feathers—

That perches in the soul—

And sings the tune without the words—

And never stops—at all—

-Emily Dickinson

On Sunday night, I had dinner at this little Mexican joint, La Rancherita; it sits downtown between Anna’s Pizzeria and The Rusty Bucket. The little pale yellow bakery that sells giant Kahlua crème horns is across the street. La Rancherita serves good food, and, if you’re watching, the place is full of interesting and fascinating people.  A lovely little family of four walked in, and caught my attention immediately. The tiny little girl was wearing a pretty blue knitted cap, and she picked out a seat in a booth far away from her family, and declared that this was where she wanted to sit. She was already adventurous and outspoken. The little boy wanted to have a seat facing a television so that he could, "watch sports;” but, he was carrying a little paperback book and immediately started drawing; he was a dreamer and an artist.

What I noticed instantly was that both parents were communicating with each other and with their kids. Not only were they communicating with words, but they were communicating with their body language. They were really and truly focused on each other and on their children. They were involved in what the kids were playing with, what they were interested in, and really hearing what they had to say. It was very refreshing to see this genuine human interaction. Not at any time, did either of them take out a phone, to look at, or take pictures with. They simply interacted with their children.

We live in a world where we are glued to our cell phones, causing an immeasurable amount of lost and missed human interactions. Repeatedly, I see children trying to capture their parent’s attention, but there’s clearly something more important in that lighted box, so the child is ignored, or told to stop and be quiet. Technology is great, except when it isn’t; and as a result of it, we are simultaneously so connected and so distant from one another.

But this little family gave me hope.

waiting

I saw him for a fraction of a second. He was sitting on the metal railing next to the bus stop. He was wearing a white t-shirt, and a gray and white striped serape jacket; the wool kind that you find at the flea market and the state fair. It had a hood, but he wasn't using it. The wind blew sharply, through it, cutting to his weary skin. He squinted into the sun, and held on tightly to a white coffee cup, balancing gracefully on the rail. There was a silver bike within grasping distance. I know it was his. He was wearing black pants and worn brown leather shoes with black soles. His face was red, maybe from the sun, maybe from high blood pressure, maybe from drinking. His soft white hair and beard were cut very short all around. He thought about his kids. And he thought about the last three cigarettes in his pocket. And how late is that liquor store open? Wordlessly, he waited for the bus. 

The Green Bridge II - Lyonel Feininger