On Arriving Back Home - A River Song

Frost on the window turned to fog as the heat kicks on.  Fall is definitely here, the growl of the furnace waking from hibernation, waking me too early from the rapture of deep sleep, as I roll over and sigh with its loss.

Barkley will go out in the backyard before he is fed.  For myself, a cup of hot coffee and fresh baked bread, consumed at the table that's seen several  generations pass.  A sip of liquid, the tear of bread, a communion with the morning, as I say a pray of thanks.  Elsewhere, the world rushes ahead, gathering like seagulls at a fast food place, eating their microwaved food thrown at them out a window. Few wish to get up earlier just to have this quiet time, the language of yeast and oven and hands being a foreign tongue, a Mass for the dead, the generations gone, whispering from the walls around.  I sense them, the history in this house, even as I know they are not here, the words I speak, head bowed, a whisper in the mist.

I have arrived home, the clock showing a new day has started, even as I exited the terminal from a delayed flight.  Cabs waited, hovering around the doors, like stray cats, seeking warmth and sustenance. I hailed one, my planned ride home sent to bed when I realized I'd be landing just a few hours before he got up for work.  The driver was an older man, cordial and polite. After ensuring I was buckled in, and an obeisant glance at the cross on the rear-view mirror,  he takes off into the night, uttering a torrent of Greek into his hands free phone, a cheerful animated conversation with a friend, by his tone.  Though he's totally attuned to the road, his words rush past with emotion, a smile, a gesture of futility, a pondering frown, and more smiles.  Of the rapidly flowing language, I only caught one phrase in English "walking dead" and I had to stifle my laughter.  We are a nation as bound by the old as we are the new.

Each time I go home to see my family, things change. Small business closed, a big box mart type store replacing a row of houses that used to line the small highway west to Home.  Dad's house itself is largely unchanged, but for fresh paint and a good roof, something Big Bro always took care of. The only thing that changes as I come in, is my Father, the man slowly and carefully coming to the door, still the man I remember chasing me down the street when those training wheels came off the bicycle and I realized how fast I could fly, unfettered. Yet, even as he's approaching a hundred years on this earth, he is as strong as the staff in his hand, to be raised when one needs help to fight, to be leaned on when one is weary. Yet even as he has aged, he's remained a constant, and even as my own faith at times foundered, I saw his strengthen in his eyes.

On the table by his chair lay a well worn Bible, something to be read each day before his meal. On the wall, certificates and flags, photos of submarines and airplanes, markers of duty that stand above a table on which sit two children's toys, sturdy little vehicles a generation old, one commanded by a small, well loved teddy bear. As I sat each day and listened to him read, I was aware, dimly and without regret, of the silent sundering of this family, too soon, only one of us remaining.

But the words of the Book of Psalms call me back into the present  This is the day which the LORD hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it. And we will, taking every moment we can out of the time remaining, like the savoring of a fine meal, one flavor upon another, sweet diffusing the bitter, the spray of warmth against the tongue, the velvet of oil, that binds but does not subdue. We are not shy guests at the feast the world offers, breathing deep of the day. Like the freshly  baked bread, the air is full of the breath of sweet warmth, comforting long after it has been consumed.

After the breakfast dishes are washed, we make our way into town for gas and supplies, taking the ferry. It's a ritual journey that's been made a hundred times. Sure, one can take a small bridge to the other route, then a huge span of metal across the river some miles further, but it's not nearly as fun. Passing the Nordic Hall, we get to the ferry in time to be first on, where Dad can sit in the vehicle sensing the motion, and I can lean against the front barrier, the wind in my hair, stray raindrops on my face.

The river looks like steel, the wind coming from the mouth of the river, humming as if through wire. We're early, so Big Bro steps off the boat back to land, to have that silent cigarette he thinks I don't know he'll smoke.  I watch him in the faded fabric of the shore, his form, a thin piece of steel unbending before the wind, the embers of his cigarette  fraying away in fiery shreds, carried on that biting wind like sparks of ice.

Everyone now on board, we move away from the dock. The ferry moves with the aged motion of service, the rituals of grace, the tending of the fires of an alter, burdens born secretly, yet even in its cumbersome age, moving towards the light on the horizon.

A ferry has been making this run for almost a hundred years, and will a hundred after we are all gone. The faint leap of my heart reminds me of how much I miss the water, the faintly metallic scent of the sea, evoking pale images of silent hopes, the fragrance of forgotten tears.  The other riders probably think I'm daft, standing out here in the cold and the wind, the throb of the engine a song within me, of history and a name which lies on the edge of memory beyond capturing, falling behind, left in the churning wake. The sound of a ship's horn brings me out of my pondering, cleaving the air like a star does the secrecy of  night.  I turn and wave at my Dad, and go back in the vehicle to keep he and my brother company.

I will make this trip again, the intervals between, shorter and shorter, as is time. Even when the last trip is made, the ferry will continue to run. From island to shore, from the past to the future, the span of distance is small.
-Brigid 10/7/2013