The acorns confetti the backyard like heavy pepper in the side of our Alabama hill, and I’m going there, where the trees go bare, where the creek and shifting leaves beg hush.
My daddy has a graceful red horse that runs (thunders) along side our van every time we start up the driveway. She runs, and her hair moves like one of those scenes that passes through your mind when you take a last breath.
We’ll take 5-minute walks 15 times a day. Horses and barns and acorns, allergies berzerk, tears coming out in happy stings.
But going home isn’t dramatic. It’s still just mostly huddling around the television and eating until we hate ourselves. My boys, though, will touch land that is theirs, taste a hint of milk and honey.
Here at the apartments, they don’t belong, can’t dig or climb or throw. Pray that the bottom of my Mama’s tub is full of dirt every night we’re there. Pray we smell sweet feed, open dusty hymnals and sing, “Flee as a Bird to Your Mountain.”
Thanksgiving time, I’ll write on paper with a cheap pen, and I’ll glory in boonies away from the internet, and I’ll wait until the dishwasher’s running to take a shower, and I’ll have a bite of the world’s best banana pudding just for you.