Going Home

“Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart's tears can dry at their own pace." Vernon Baker

Our plane touches down at one in the morning, and I text my best friend of 28 years, “We landed thirty minutes early. Colorado tail wind!” My children, unaccustomed to air travel, do not understand why planes take longer to unload than school buses. “It’s hot. Why aren’t these people moving?” My five year old’s Thomas the Train blanket is coiled around his head like a fleece turban, his eyes glazed with exhaustion. Wedged between his eleven year old sister and fourteen year old brother, he is conked in the head by her purple flowered backpack and his big brother’s navy duffel bag as the older ones tussle for precious open space in the aisle way. “Move over, idiot! I need to stand up and stretch my legs!” 

Leaning in close, I smell my daughter’s freshly washed hair and wish I could scoop them all up and tuck them into bed. They are worn out, hot, tired. Ready for cool sheets and a long sleep.  But at the moment, threats are in order because we must get off the plane without incident and I’ve run out of Skittles and all other believable bribes. “You see that guy giving us the stink eye? I think he’s an air marshall, which means he has zip ties and a gun in his pocket. So I’d put a sock in it, before he hauls you off the plane in handcuffs.”  All but the little one, who simply wants to lean his head against my belly and rest, look alarmed, and promptly stop shoving each other.

But my oldest son is swaying, looking hot and flushed, as if he’s about to have a heatstroke. The stewardess strapped in her jump seat, calmly sipping a diet Dr. Pepper and tapping away on her iPad, ignores the mass of sweaty, irritated passengers. “Any chance you could turn on the AC?” She flashes a tight lipped smile in my general direction, the signature, “screw you, lady,” look of disdain made famous by the young, overworked and childless. “I’ll phone the flight deck and see what I can do.” 

Yes, that would be wise. Before the woman in 26B has a panic attack. She’s complaining loudly, to no one in particular, that she can’t control her core temperature because she had her ovaries and uterus removed four days prior to our flight. And, she shouldn’t have ordered the caramel mocha because dairy always gives her gas. It is now easily one hundred and ten degrees in the cabin. Apparently they are hatching chicks on the plane. 

Ten lifetimes later, we emerge into the florescent coolness of the nearly deserted airport, and zig zag towards our waiting Metro Car. Ground transportation, God bless you. In an hour, we’ll be at my best friend’s childhood home and for six days, we will swim in her pool, wake to blueberry pancakes, eggs and bacon and watch her parents dote on all of our children, her two tiny ones and my three medium ones. 

Her home was my second home and had been since childhood. When my own parents died, her mother and father stepped up, generously giving me an anchor and place of refuge. They knew I would not last long without a repository for memories, a nest to fly home to when my own felt hollow and cold.

From memory, I tell the driver their address. Forty five minutes, if he drives quickly, and my children will be tucked under the same blankets we used when we were gangly seventh graders giggling over boys. When I cried myself to sleep after the sudden death of my sister, hiding from the home I wasn’t always ready to return to. Dreaming the peaceful sleep possible when you know you are safe, as the future rolls onward with its diaphanous edges and gently lit hopes.

They are standing in the driveway, waiting. The laughter bubbles up before the car slows to a stop, and I fumble in the dark for the door handle. “What took you so long?” Her mother is wearing a robe I don’t remember, and Anna is doing an Irish jig while she settles the tab with the driver. We flutter around the driveway, lighting first on each other, then on each of the children in turn. “My God, who is this big grown man?” Shaking my oldest son gently by the shoulders, arms reach for my littlest. “Mason, get over here and give Babcia a hug. I’m gonna squeeze him!” Mason, wide eyed, is willingly enfolded in the embrace of his godmother and her mother. I laugh, without hiding the tears sliding down my cheeks. “Ava, you look just like your mother. Are you hungry? Get inside, now, you’re gonna get eaten alive by mosquitos! Don’t forget to take your shoes off. Anna, did you make those beds?”

“Yes, Janice. I made the beds.” Eyes rolled in my direction make me laugh, and Anna makes a face at her mother. “Don’t pinch me. Who do you think you are? My mother?” We tumble down the stairs as quietly as we can manage, our small herd. But before I head downstairs to sleep, I pause. The kitchen is the same. There is the gleaming wooden table with the fluted white bowl in the center, where my parents ate pierogi and sauerkraut. The green wicker chair in the corner, which overlooks the garden. 

Every detail of the house rises up to meet me. Cut roses on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. The antique crystal glass, holding a dozen silver spoons next to the coffee pot and a plum kuchen, which will be our breakfast. The smell; clean and warm, like baking bread and lemon oil. The piano where Anna sang and practiced for hours, the painting of an old piece of pottery, cracked along its edge. That has been reframed. 

Standing alone, briefly, I hear words to a melody I was sure I’d lost. Like finding a key, hidden deep inside a pocket, one you thought you’d misplaced, I am flooded with relief. I am home, the world is ordered properly. I head slowly down the stairs to join my children and laugh for a few minutes with my friend before we all turn in, knowing full well that tonight, I will rest.

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