The Moment I Realized I Had Truly Come Home

“They” say…not to make any major life changes for at least two years after experiencing a major loss, such as a move, or a career change…and especially if you have kids.  I get that.  I can’t imagine what it would have done to my kid if, within a short time of losing her dad, I had upped and moved us across the country.  And honestly, it didn’t even occur to me to move…until it did.  And then I did.  Move us.

We moved from the last home we lived in as a whole family.  We moved away from our entire family of in-laws and out-laws (out-laws are southern code for blood relations).  We moved to a state I had never lived in, to a town where we didn’t know a single soul other than my realtor and my banker.

We assimilated quickly, folding and sinking into the fabric of this Maine-land as if we were always meant to have a small part in the way life should be.  And (with the help of our newly made friends and neighbors) we explored quickly, discovering hidden gems of local life, guarded protectively within the hearts of this piece of hometown Americana.  Our circle of friends and acquaintances has grown strong and true in the eight months since our relocation and we couldn’t be happier or feel more blessed being led to this place.

I looked over Grace’s shoulder, staring out the window of the plane with unseeing eyes, wondering what it would feel like…BE like…to go back “home”…to that last place we lived as a complete family…for the first time.   Would it feel hard?  Would it feel empty?  Would it be painful and hurt way down deep in my soul?  Would I feel pangs of regret?  Would I struggle to hold it together?

All in all, this trip was more for Grace than it was for me in terms of “visiting” and catching up with friends and family during her week off for February Break.  There were quite a few things which required my attention in the limited amount of time we had, which severely limited the amount of time I had to socialize, as it rendered me quite busy.  Even so, it seemed a logical moment to squeeze in time for holding my very first book signing as a published author, since it was here where I felt and experienced everything that led to its inception.

I think the experience of that special occasion resulted in an extraordinary outcome…allowing this trip to unfold in a way that protected my heart and allowed it to live and breathe in the place where it once suffered its worst hurt.

It’s funny how “time” plays such a surrealistic role in the perception of our human experiences. We’d only been gone for eight months…yet it felt like it could have been eight years.

Upon pulling up the driveway of our old home, I felt a sense of contented interest and non-proprietary pride as I surveyed this place we had built from the ground up.  Still experiencing the residual close-cut effect of the Texas winterscape, I noted with a smile Spring’s insistent signs of its impending arrival scattered about upon the grounds.  Spring always seems to come early to Texas.

We tumbled out of the car, Grace and I, racing to the goat pen to see if Dude and Sugar would remember us, and found them blending in with a much larger herd of goats, sheep, and one lone horse out in the pasture.  They trotted over en masse, curious at these silly humans reaching out to touch wet noses and pat heads before allowing themselves to be drawn away by the more appetizing lure of fresh grazing.  We grinned at each other, happy to see they had such a large cadre of fellow four-footed friends to keep them company.  I watched Dude, that goat having a special place in my heart, at times the only verbal companion I had when Grace was away on a sleepover, ALS having rendered Charlie without a voice early on.

As I turned to survey the house, the yard, the porch, and cabin, it was obvious to see that, in our absence, everything was being well used, well cared for, and well loved.  I realized, at that moment, there were no memories here that had not, in some way, been colored by ALS.  Charlie had already begun to suffer weakness when we first bought the land and began the race against time to ready a place equipped and accessible enough to care for his needs in comfort and relative peace.  That didn’t mean there weren’t any GOOD ones, just that they spoke of a chapter that was often fraught with fear, difficulty, and pain…and I didn’t need to hold on to a place to hold those memories tight.

The remainder of that day and part of the next was dedicated to promoting the book signing on the local radio station, reconnecting Grace with her old buddies, and running various errands that could only be done locally and in person.  We noted the various changes along the way, pointing out that big oak on the corner must have finally fell over and blocked the road (can’t believe it lasted as long as it did…); nodding at the new stoplight they’re putting in over by Collard Street (FINALLY, that’s been a dangerous intersection forever and a day…); throwing our hands up at the fact that Hwy 75 is down to ONE lane (what were they THINKING???); and enjoying some local fare specific to this little town (breakfast and lunch tacos from the Taco Place and Arjon Taco, respectively, as well as some Walker’s Cafe and Rancho’s the next day…)  Nom nom!

A happy accident necessitated my book signing begin at three o’clock instead of the originally planned four which ended up working out to my advantage.  I wasn’t sure what I might expect once the signing commenced.  I had already had a dream that only two people showed up AND I had forgotten to bring any of my books… But since I actually DID remember to bring the books, I figured I was already ahead of the game.  Some snacks, a few Wicked Whoopies we brought from Maine, a coffee bar on site, and voila!…we were as ready as we would ever be.  I would have counted the day a success and been happy as a clam munching on snacks, sipping coffee at Heart to Heart, and getting in a good sized visit in with my best good friend (who had come in from out of town to get bossed around, I mean, to help me…), even if no one else showed up.  But that was not what transpired.

Almost immediately, hometown folk started coming in through the doors.  Anyone who grew up in a small town will tell you, the best AND worst thing about being from a small town is the fact that everyone knows everyone.  This was one of those times when it was “best.” 

So many of the people I saw that day came in, not necessarily because of their love for me (although that DID play a part), but BECAUSE they KNEW me…they knew my story…knew that it had, in large part, played out right here in this little town, and in a way, THAT created a kinship and made it their story, as well. 

Some of them had walked beside us during Charlie’s fight against ALS.  They were our neighbors down the street, high school friends that had reconnected, church family who stepped in where they saw a need.  Then there were those who came after…who sat alongside me, still fresh in my grief because it was theirs, as well.  We shared similar hurts, within a similar timeline, and that painful commonality will connect us forever.  There may have even been those who didn’t realize, and only saw the story in retrospect, and were struck by the plain simple fact that sometimes you just never know what’s going on in the life of someone who’s right there beside you in the same town.  Life can be funny that way.

Each face that materialized in front of me was that of a beloved character from the story of my life.  Perhaps not paid homage through the words on my pages, but they were there nonetheless…between the lines, and certainly behind them.  And just as I never tire of revisiting my fictional favorites found between the covers of the books littering my bookshelves, I greeted each one with open arms, reminded anew of the integral role each and every one had played in my very own plot line…  And I was overwhelmed. 

It was a fitting tribute to the most critical chapter I have yet lived. 

At the end of the afternoon, all that remained was a sense of comfort, reminiscent of the feeling I get upon reaching for a book I’ve read a hundred times, ready to sink between the pages of selective memory, knowing how the story will end,and finding a comforting security from the feeling that knowledge produces. 

The next morning found me digging through cardboard boxes housing years upon stacked years of once relevant paperwork now rendered obsolete by the passage of time.  I found also, it was somehow…easier to let the physical records of our previous life go up in smoke, turning to ash in the belly of the burn barrel.  I caught myself smiling often when a particular piece triggered a memory or laughing with delight when happening upon a forgotten treasure hidden between the piles and piles of absolute rubbish. 

I was not sad.  Not in the traditional sense of the word.  If anything, it was more like a sad wistfulness, an acknowledgment of loss – that there was a life once lived that was lost too soon, and the acceptance of that sad finality.  And somehow, that translated into a certainty about, and contentment in, the choice I had made in moving us to Maine.

So often, we talk about “closure” as if it’s a physical action…an actual shutting out, locking the door, and walking away from whatever unpleasantness has taken place and caused us harm.  I’m not sure such a thing is possible.  Nor, do I think it’s necessarily something to be desired.  I may not want to remember, in detail, the bits and pieces that have the power to cut me to the quick.  But I don’t ever want to forget, either. 

I don’t ever want to forget those things because they make me remember.  They make me remember that life is GOOD, that it is SHORT; tomorrow is NOT promised; and love matters.  They make me remember to look around my world daily; take the time to try and really SEE people; be thankful for the beauty in every day; and appreciate the little gifts of life that we so easily take for granted. 

In essence, that wistful sadness was buffered by the knowledge that a future awaits and a present is here that is more than I even knew to hope for.  That brings with it a sense of validation…that all of the reasons which led me to Maine still stand up, still ring true, and carry the portent of there being something here for me, for us, and that it WILL be good.

On the return flight to Boston, I found myself wondering again… But THIS time, I wondered what it would feel like to come back home…home to this new place, this new house, to an alternate version of life as we once knew it.

Although the weather in Texas had been wet and, coincidentally, just as cold, I found myself noting almost immediately that the air here seemed just a bit more “crisp,” even while curbside in the city waiting on the shuttle.  Once the shuttle arrived and the hustle and jockeying of luggage finally saw us loaded and truly headed home, the residual tiredness that only bustling travel brings, settled in as quickly as our winter afternoons flip the switch to night.

The drive home takes us across the border of Massachusetts, through about fifteen miles of New Hampshire before crossing the Piscataqua River that separates Portsmouth, New Hampshire from Kittery, Maine via a green through arch bridge.  I felt my belly perform its familiar flip as my Google Assistant announced in her British accent, “Welcome to Maine,” as we crossed the imaginary state line hovering somewhere near the center of the river. 

State signs glow metallic blue coming off the bridge, lit up by the reflected glare of headlights and I see it…the one I know to look for now, the one that caught me off-guard that one time, causing my breath to catch and my stomach to clench – simply stating MAINE…Welcome Home…The Way Life Should Be. 

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, feeling the tension ebb from my shoulders as I let the truth of that statement sink in.  A few miles later, as the dancing lights from traffic began illuminating the vestiges of winter’s snowclad landscape, I let myself feel it. 

Peace seeped in, the kind of peace that starts in your bones and warms the body from the inside out.  Peace in knowing all was well in the place we had built; peace in the certainty that all would be well in this new life we forged; peace in the decisions I had made and the direction we were headed.

And I knew, before yet arriving…I was home.

I’ve dealt with my ghosts and faced all my demons
Finally content with a past I regret
I’ve found you find strength in your moments of weakness
For once I’m at peace with myself
I’ve been burdened with blame, trapped in the past for too long
I’m movin’ on…

-Rascal Flatts, I’m Movin’ On