“It will be good to feel the road,” Dora wrote in a letter to me, years ago now, of her pending trip from her parents’ home in Grove City, PA to Chicago.
I knew what she meant when she wrote that. It can be good, that road time. Time for anonymity, except for the other occupants of the car; time for your favorite music loaded on the iPod; time for blank staring out the window, or reading, or playing games, or miles and miles of Silence. And time to get used to the fact that, at the end of this long drive, you will be Someplace Else.
We are just returned, this morning, from eight days in New York. But this time we didn’t feel the road at all. We got up at 5, arrived at JFK before 7, boarded our plane at 8, and landed in Raleigh/Durham at 9:30.
The trip usually takes us 12 hours by car; it is just over one hour by plane.
It was great to fly. Wonderful, really. A Christmas gift to our entire family, giving us two more days to be There, rather than spending two days in transit. And we had a wonderful time.
All day since then I’ve been unpacking, finding places for the Christmas gifts we’ve brought home, and reclaiming, with soap and sponge or vacuum, my home. I can’t say why, exactly. It’s just what I do. Responsibility gathered about my ankles as I trailed suitcases down the driveway; the return to school on Wednesday encroaches on my mind, its presence as nearly palpable as the dry pine needles at the foot of our Christmas tree.
I always have a hard time coming home.
But five suitcases to unpack. I pile the games near the piano and the children arrange them under the tree. I send the boys to their room with the clothes to put away. I stack Bill’s and my clothes according to drawer; I put Emma Grace’s clothes on her bed. I am trying to remember if it is time to change the sheets. I don’t think I had time to do it before we left home.
And then I spot the Christmas c.d. that my cousin Pammy sent to the children a few weeks ago, and I’m sort of shocked to remember, here in Durham, that Only Yesterday I was at Pammy’s house in Massapequa and we were dancing together at Jones Beach. I still have sand in my shoes.
One of the suitcases holds the towels my aunt gave me. They are thick and plush and blue; I don’t think I’ve ever had such nice towels before. I take a long time arranging them in the guest bathroom, and they look So Nice.
Was it only yesterday that I sat at Annie’s kitchen table? That same generous aunt made us a beautiful lunch. Was it only yesterday? But it was Miles ago.
Outside the children play on their skateboards. It is warm here, unseasonably. In New York City the children wore their hats and gloves All The Time. Outside, the neighbor children wear shorts.
Here, the neighbors’ houses fill in all the spaces between the empty trees. At my parents’ house, the empty trees gave way to glimpses of blue, blue like my new towels and infinite shades Other; the water peeked and winked at us. Here, it is too warm for a fire in the hearth; at my parents’ house, the fire was a household companion, and I sat by it and talked with my family, and read to my children, and read to myself. That was only two days ago, but it is Miles and Miles ago now.
I am home now. Or was I home yesterday and now have come away, to Someplace Else, this Other Place, the place where I spend most of my time?
I think it might take me a couple of days to get used to this.
