Something happened today--I can only use the word magic--something wonderful and fine.
Today my Dad left for Missouri, to drive across plains and distant hills and dying farms until he reaches his temporary leadership detail. He will stay, far away, for several months and return in mid-December.
Dad and I have grown up to communicate in different ways and there are days when I wish I hadn't been away to understand that difference. And then there are days I wouldn't change him for the world.
I feel as though the past two months have been a strange waking hour upon the even stranger dream of everything my years in Wisconsin were, and were not. I dearly miss the familiar streets, the way I had made Madison mine. Struggles and joy, laughter and so much loneliness.
But today.
Today we returned from yoga and I set up shop in the kitchen. I made the chili and set it down to simmer. And then I began on the apple pie. Using the recipe I have used every year, I rolled out the dough to paper-thinness, watching the way the flour covered my hands, noticing the clean, even strokes I took with the rolling pin, the way my fingers flattened gently, as if they were caressing the moving handles. The apples were mixed by hand, of course, and the juice at the bottom was like caramel. Emmy and I traded laughs in the kitchen, letting the flour fly (not too much!) and picking out the juiciest slices for ourselves.
When I took the pie out of the oven I laid it out to cool. I wandered away to the computer, tired of standing after a long day at work. Several minutes later I emerged from the front room and the smells from the kitchen hit me good and hard. I'm not sure how one describes the taste or scent of memory, of knowing that someone else is with you, even though you didn't know it at the time.
I came home today. I set down my knapsack and took off my shoes. I finally came home to New Hampshire, to that classic New England autumn, to feeling alive again, to not having to be afraid or lonely any more.
I'm here, Dad, I'm home.
Today my Dad left for Missouri, to drive across plains and distant hills and dying farms until he reaches his temporary leadership detail. He will stay, far away, for several months and return in mid-December.
Dad and I have grown up to communicate in different ways and there are days when I wish I hadn't been away to understand that difference. And then there are days I wouldn't change him for the world.
I feel as though the past two months have been a strange waking hour upon the even stranger dream of everything my years in Wisconsin were, and were not. I dearly miss the familiar streets, the way I had made Madison mine. Struggles and joy, laughter and so much loneliness.
But today.
Today we returned from yoga and I set up shop in the kitchen. I made the chili and set it down to simmer. And then I began on the apple pie. Using the recipe I have used every year, I rolled out the dough to paper-thinness, watching the way the flour covered my hands, noticing the clean, even strokes I took with the rolling pin, the way my fingers flattened gently, as if they were caressing the moving handles. The apples were mixed by hand, of course, and the juice at the bottom was like caramel. Emmy and I traded laughs in the kitchen, letting the flour fly (not too much!) and picking out the juiciest slices for ourselves.
When I took the pie out of the oven I laid it out to cool. I wandered away to the computer, tired of standing after a long day at work. Several minutes later I emerged from the front room and the smells from the kitchen hit me good and hard. I'm not sure how one describes the taste or scent of memory, of knowing that someone else is with you, even though you didn't know it at the time.
I came home today. I set down my knapsack and took off my shoes. I finally came home to New Hampshire, to that classic New England autumn, to feeling alive again, to not having to be afraid or lonely any more.
I'm here, Dad, I'm home.
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