|Sometime in the late 50's. Me with the youngest of my 3 brothers.|
The older you get, the more dream-like are the trips back home.
"Home" exists largely in memory; so much time has passed that it's a different place now. Nevertheless I recently made the annual voyage back to the Midwest, always bittersweet and a cause for deep reflection.
It's good to pay attention, to draw meaning from the things that pop out along a journey. The trip contained omens from the start.
'm losing her cell-by-cell as she sinks into the forgetfulness of old age. We drove to nearby Port Washington where she strolled into the busy-ness of the marina with its boats and bikers, walkers and sightseers. We had a lovely morning together, and I'm very grateful for it. In the afternoon we walked and talked some more, this time in the nearby woods.
That night I was awakened in the middle of the night by the calls of a great horned owl next to the house. Responding to the calls were the squawks of a youngster perched just outside my window. I listened to their back-and-forth conversation, and then fell back into a deep sleep. In the morning I wondered if it had been real.
|A selfie of me and my mother. See the huge mosquito on my forehead? Wisconsin.|