She crouched feeling the familiar pop in her back as she stooped low enough to reach the dead roses covering the headstone. Her large knuckled, knotted hands, trembled just slightly as she brushed aside the dry red roses to reveal the inscription. The letters were covered with lichen and dried mud but remained readable: “Joyce Lynn Hutchinson, Beloved Wife, Born June 18, 1932, Died November 11 1955, Age 23.”
Joyce had promised herself that if she reached her 80th birthday, she would return to her “gravesite”. Today was the day. She remembered standing in the first snow of the winter, quivering despite her long brown overcoat, scarf wound around her neck, her blond hair concealed under a hat, watching from a distance as her coffin had been lowered into the ground.
She took a moment to wonder about the life she would have had. The past 57 years had treated her well. She chose two of the dead roses carefully placing them in a tissue as she stood. Slowly she smiled saying a silent final good-bye to her old life before she turned walking away, clutching the only thing that remained from her past.
“Do not go home tonight!” The message was clear enough but who sent this? Why?
Becca jerked to a stop on the muddy shoulder of the road. Fumbling to light her cigarette in the dwindling daylight, she sat there trying to decipher the ominous message.
Home was close, only five miles away. Paul would be angry if dinner wasn’t on the table. Yet, she sat there unable to move. Her long fingers trembled as she rummaged through her black bag. Finding her phone her eyes focused on the words lit up on the screen. “ Do not go home tonight.”
Earlier this morning as she wrestled her thick dark curls into a ponytail her eyes had caught the quick ping of a new message. No time right now to see who it was from. Becca angrily wiped the smudges from under her blue eyes and reapplied a fresh layer of mascara and liner. Why did Paul always say such hurtful things to her just as she was trying to get out of the house? Hurriedly, she struggled to get her green coat on over her dingy white waitress uniform as she jumped into her car.
Her five minute, mid morning cigarette break was the first time she had had time to read the message; “Do not go home tonight”. Nothing else. No time stamp, name or a phone number. Nothing. This cryptic dark message plagued her. Coffee spilled as she poured it, a glass tumbler of soda slipped through her shaking hands crashing loudly to the floor, everything she touched seemed to result in chaos. Who had sent this to her. Leafing through her mind, Becca tried to recall anybody she might have let slip even the tiniest bit of information to. No one knew, not even Susan, her closest friend. The afternoon crept into evening ending her work shift.
Sitting in the car she knew she had to make a decision. Suddenly, she realized with complete clarity who the ominous message was from. She started the engine, pulled back onto the road, slowed and then without further thought, Becca turned the car around heading away from home, away from her life. It was time.
Apples, green tart apples, not the oranges I expected to see. Before, when I was last here, every street and corner seemed to be lined with orange trees, orange groves and always the sweet fragrant flowers blooming. Circular roundabouts always prove to be a challenge when I first return. Despite having been gone for over a year, I still feel that rush of warmth telling me that I made a good choice in returning. Expectance of things to remain the same is often a mistake. Fast, quick and impatience are words to be left behind when returning home. Gypsy’s, entire families including household goods and pets fill rickety wooden carts being pulled down the two lane road by an old unkempt horse slowly plodding along. Hours later, so it seems, the Gypsy family finally pulls over into their chosen encampment for the evening allowing the long patient stream of cars idling behind to pick up speed. I knew to expect this slower pace of life, but had simply forgotten. Just to firmly jolt my memory back into the European life style, a shepard is heard off in the distance singing boldly to his flock of wooly sheep. Kids are frequently seen kicking their scuffed up soccer ball, scuttling out of the way of cars on this rutted out country road.
Lately, prior to my arrival home to this country, my stress level had been increasing again. Minutes after my arrival, my headache eased, stomach stopped churning and the constant tiredness eased. Needless to say, my return was well over due. Over just a few months ago, I had realized my desparate need to go home. People ask why, why leave the country I was born in, why leave friends and family? Questioning my logic at every luncheon, dinner or simply at a family gathering became a favorite past time. Recently, my favorite story to quote in an attempt to explain is: security. Security has become an obsession with all forms of electronic devices; door cameras, alarms, phone warnings, etc. The old ladies in their house dresses leaning out windows, grey hair bundled up, arms firmly folded across their chests is security here. Until someone gives me a solid reason to leave this slow paced, secure and affordable nation, I am here to stay. Vitally important to me is my health, and this calm way of living heals me in heart, body and mind. What will come next in my life, I don’t really know, but I feel I am ready for anything. Xing out any expectations will go far towards accepting what life has in store for me. Youth is gone, age is creeping in along with an unexplained excitement. Zest for life is what keeps me young in heart and spirit.
