Going Home: Don Should Read This

There's something about the green of Washington. It's every verdant shade of a crayola box jumbled together with brilliant yellows, screaming pinks, and soft blues. It's a place watched over by towering white-capped peaks and sleeping volcanoes. Rivers cut through the land and lakes puddle like a giant's footsteps.

There's something about the smell of Washington. It lays heavy on the air, an earthy flavor underlying the crispness of evergreen. It sends me rushing into childhood until I'm twelve and laying on the porch roof, dreaming of far away places and epic romances.

There's something about the light of Washington. It's soft, diffused by high clouds on even a cloudless day. It doesn't glare and cut into the eyes, but is absorbed by the cool darkness of the forest always a few steps away.

I stepped off the plane with my gingers in tow and felt a rushing sense of home.

It's been twenty-one years since I've lived there.

It's been almost ten since I've visited.

Still, it cut through me with an unexpected ache. This, was home.

Don met us at the airport, his face familiar not because of my always spotty memories, but because of renewed friendship courtesy Facebook. He was taller than I'd thought. Or I was shorter than I remembered. He enveloped me in a hug and tossed the kids and luggage into the car. We drove to his house, the conversation easy as we talked of the weather, of classmates, of his children and wife, of my children, and of the adventures he hoped we'd have.

He took the long way home, past a rushing river. I bit my tongue against the urge to ask him to pull over so I could scramble to that icy water and feel it numb my feet. I wanted to drink it through my pores and pull it into my body. I wanted to baptize my children in the land of my birth.

They live at the end of a long dirt road cutting up a hillside and into a tamed forest. He assured me it was safely fenced in and reminded me there are no deadly snakes, spiders or animals in this part of Washington. We unloaded the car and took a tour of his house and yard, winding our way through packed dirt paths, sneaking a berry off a bush, picking a daisy for Elizabeth's hair, and relishing the shade.

I watched with a smile while he put Joseph on a motor bike, trusting this father of three children even though my son almost ran him over. Joseph fell and cried out. I rushed to him and he looked at me in surprise. "The ground is soft."

And it is. It's the soft of a place where rain falls nearly every day. It's not cracked earth thirsty for any drop of liquid.

The kids asked to jump on the trampoline and then, after the begged, I jumped too. I bounced the pine needles and children like popcorn in a hot pan. Which was exactly the way I didn't want to introduce myself to Don's wife Makensy.

She smiled and I felt an instant kinship for this woman who had opened up her home to a stranger and her two children. We chatted about chickens and children while the former chased bugs and the later picked up bows and arrows. The boys formed an instant rapport over Minecraft, Legos, and dragons. Elizabeth practically danced in anticipation of meeting their daughter who finally came home. The two girls disappeared into the house, curly heads tilted together only to return in their swimsuits.

Conversation and wine flowed. Makensy's grandmother and boyfriend arrived for dinner and more wine and conversation. The kids slid on the slip and slide, their faces stained with watermelon. I sipped my wine, breathing deeply and letting go of all the stress and worry, the noise of home.

After dinner, there was s'mores and a tent for the kids. They cuddled in sleeping bags, lanterns snapping on and off in time to their giggles while we sat around the embers of the fire and talked. I discovered Don only reads my blog if the title appealed and that Makensy and I share similar tastes in books and music. We shared stories and opinions, laughing and sometimes serious. 

I went to bed late that first night, my head light from the wine. The noise that has been screaming at me for months now was muted. The anxiety that has been lurking in the shadows for months, always threatening to attack, retreated. I fell asleep feeling utterly and completely safe and knowing, somehow, that perhaps this trip was going to heal a part of me I didn't fully realize was wounded.