Taking the long way home

Leaving work, I glance at the freeway and can't find the heart to join the jam of cars heading nowhere fast. Instead, I take a road that will take longer to get home but will be more pleasing, a road that winds its way through Houston and, as it is, my life.

I take the road that carries me past the stadium where I spent high school Saturday nights at football games, dressed in red and white, braided hair, stolen beer in my purse, supporting my team, relishing my innocence and clinging to my need to belong.

It's a road that takes me past the neighborhood pool where I first jumped from a high dive, a pool where I spent countless summer days and must have driven my mother around the bend with Watch me Mom, watch this, when I did nothing more than jump from the side of the pool and yet required a look from her face that radiated, You are the most amazing child ever.

I believed her.

I still do.

I drive a road that takes me past the first house I lived in. I turn down the street and pull up to the house. I see Christmas through the windows, I see Santa Claus. I glance through the front windows and into the back yard. I see Fourth of July celebrations. I see my father coming home from work and a young me jumping up to hug him and snuggling into the cold air-conditioning lingering on his shirt collar. I see him placing his hat in the hall closet. I notice the tall Magnolia and remember when it was planted. I see my mother consoling me when I sobbed at the bay window, watching my brother and sister walking to school, devastated I could not do the same.

I see my Grandmothers there. I see myself learning to read.

I reach out for them, for me, but we are gone.

Driving on, I stop to visit Mom. She's small, frail, voiceless. I'm losing her. She reminds me of lace. Beautiful and delicate. Timeless. She sleeps. I place my fingers on her face, gently caress her cheek, kiss her forehead. She has no idea, but I know. It's enough, because it has to be.

I drive on.

I drive the bend and pass the neighborhood we next moved to, pass the three lakes that were our secret. I roll down the windows and smell the musty, wet air of the water. I recall breaking the rules and riding my pony into the water. I recall not blinking when told I did not belong there.

I remember the sign, No horses allowed, and I remember why it was erected.

I remember being a bit of a rebel in my youth. I remember wanting to belong but being selective nonetheless. I remember backing out of Girl Scouts, explaining to my very disappointed parents that I would rather be alone and riding my pony after school than make a purse from an empty milk jug.

I drive on, passing the country club where I attended day camp for four summers, and Mom played tennis for many many years. The club where I danced with my father at parties, shared brunches in celebration of Mom, or Easter, and shared family dinners on many Wednesday nights in my past.

This road, it takes me past the stables where I boarded my horse, the stables I spent six years of my life almost daily, in my love affair with all things equine, and along the way discovered boys and forged a friendship I carry to this day. The stables and the horse that put my parents in deep debt in hopes I would not follow my sister's footsteps.

Good decision on their part. I found my own path.

Eventually, the road takes me to my home. I turn the key and pause. My heart is filled with the best of yesterday, the knowledge of my mother's peaceful slumber, and not an ounce of stress from too long sitting in traffic.

I have learned that when you slowly lose a parent, your vision looks back more often than foreword. I have learned to accept the view. It's like light on water.