Longing

Has it really been five years ago today? C.H. Green ©2005

Dear Sis, Lately the yearning for home has been overwhelming. The smell of newly mown grass, the feel of it beneath my bare feet, the fresh country breezes wrapping me in yesterday--all beckon me from the back porch like Mama at suppertime. And I wonder if you feel it too. Home was honeysuckle and pine, earth and blackberries entertwined, and well water cold and clear from the garden hose. It was the hot sun glinting off my horse's neck, the smell of sweaty leather and sweet feed, fresh hay in the loft, all prickly and itchy and fun to unravel. Home was the smell of a wet dog and the sound of your laughter as he vigorously shook off in your face and turned to chase a cat up the nearest tree. It was finding litters of puppies and kittens beneath the shed or under the house or at the bar, and leaving little bowls of milk and bread under the carport to tempt them closer, then the final heartbreak of parting with them when weaned. What once was home is now a woman's childhood, wrapped up in fallen trees, rotting lumber, rusting tin--old stones piled one upon another, upturned, uprooted, removed. Why is it that when all is left but the memories, that we reach to pluck some material thing from the past. To cling to it and keep it real? To prove it indeed existed? To validate who we are, where we came from, and how we became who we are? Why do we grasp at small straws, clutching the past as if it can save us from the future? We cling to them as if letting go is a betrayel. When in reality, time and nature are merely moving in their natural courses. There will never be another home exactly like that one. All that made it good is gone. All that was bad is gone. However hard we try to picture it whole once more, we cannot breathe the breath of life back into it. A part of us has died. It was not a palace, nor an estate. It held no special magic other than its ability to draw us back time and time again. Yet we grieve. How the, can we satisfy the craving of our soul to return? How can we reconcile death and life? Only by giving birth to new dreams. Yes, we should remember. We should remember not to make the same mistakes. We should also remember and be humbled and feel so blessed. And not bemoan the loss, but build upon the foundation that is left. We could build that magic in our own lives, on our own private piece of heaven. We should build our own happiness, our own future. So, whenever you long to lie in the grass and let the sun warm your face as you listen to the sounds of the country--whenever you long to swing back and forth letting the breeze whisper in your ears as you gaze into the wide blue spaces--whenever you long to hear the hum of a nearby tractor or the buz of a lone cropduster overhead, stop and remember, and give thanks. Carry your mementos with you. Peer deeply into the velvet-lined box that is your heart and cradle the fragile moments like faberge' eggs or crackled glass. Then softly, tenderly, turn them over and over in your mind--until finally sated, you are able to press them to your breast, kiss them sweetly, and put them safely back inside, safely tucked away for as long as life and memory allows. Ultimately allow the strength and comfort your memories bring to renew your faith in God, family, and your fellowman. Let this heritage be the blueprint for raising your children. For yes, I weep with you in your loss--our loss. No one identifies with you more. I stand with you here among the ashes to say goodbye and mourn. For grief is a given, my sister. But we are strong women. And we have a mission. We have a heritage to live up to. And we cannot remove the ancient landmarks. They must stand as a testimony for all time. For our sons' sakes, for our futures' sakes, we cannot afford to linger long at the grave while there's building yet to be done! Love Always, Cindy