Roots

Yesterday was a gorgeous day. I was at home on fall break with a Halloween costume to make and a sewing machine that I needed to learn how to use. It was a perfect excuse to go out to my grandparents' house and have fun. My grandmother was going to teach me how to use my sewing machine and help me work on my costume. I had some new flower pots for her and I was itching to see my grandfather for a bit. I grabbed the keys, tuned in my favorite station, rolled down the windows, and headed into the afternoon sun.

It was amazing!

As I left town the street lights and buildings gave way to miles of fences and grazing cows. I bobbed my head to the song on the radio and like always, found myself slowing down to soak up the country sun. My senses came alive as I followed the familiar path and time stood still while I stepped back to revisit my childhood.

I passed the house that my grandfather had remodeled years ago. The backyard once held a cute little red house with a ramp and several goats hopping from the top of the ramp to greet you as you approached.

A bit further down and I drove passed a ghost of a house that dad and I used to visit. The lady that once lived there had a gorgeous garden that was often overtaken by rodents and pests. We used to go out and help her "clean up" the only way my country boy dad knew how. Afterwards, she would treat us to some fresh lemonade or tea and tell us about the land stretching out beyond us. I slowed a bit more, sadly remembering her last years. Her sons had banished her to a tiny house across the street that was falling apart as they sold off hundreds of acres and a gorgeous plantation style home as well as every fork and spoon they could find. She happily planted a tiny garden and went on as if nothing had changed.

I rounded yet another curve and slowed to a crawl watching the fields of hay wave in the gleaming sunlight like a sea of gold anxious to be cut. As the hay rippled back and forth in the wind, an image of a tiny hand held in my own flooded my mind. I imagined her skipping as ribbons held back wispy pigtails. I smiled and a single tear found its way down my cheek.

As I continued, I crept passed Crawfish Pond, remembering my trepidation and delight at catching my first crawfish in a bucket with my aunt and uncle on a sunny summer afternoon. I felt the hot tears slip silently down my face overcome with fear, hope, and sadness all at once. These were my roots. I loved this road and the stories that it told. I cling to the stories my grandmother told me about my mother as we made our way through woodsey trails to pick berries or admire wildlife.

Once at my grandmother's house, we relived so many fond childhood memories. There were toys and books lovingly hidden for us to treasure on rainy days. I feel so blessed to have the opportunity to appreciate all of these things but my heart is so heavy. I have no one to share these things with. The stories can go no further without a child to spin tales for.

I put the key in the slot and backed down the drive for home. My heart ached for a child to laugh with on the ride home. It was filled with sadness and emptiness, but as I drove past the dark shadows of my memories my heart was warmed with hope and determination that I would be back some day with a child of my own to weave tales for.

This is why we push on and keep trying.