We went to a wedding yesterday whose location had me passing through some haunted territory. It felt like driving through a cemetary, or walking over an old battleground. The air was charged.
I studied every single passing car for one in particular, wanting it to appear, dreading that it would. It didn't.
I held my husband's hand and my son held my fingers. I smiled and leaned my head back into the cleansing sun.
Later we danced amid all kinds of loving pairs: bride and groom, mother and son, flower girl and ring bearer. The way a gentleman placed his hand on his wife's tiny belly made me think perhaps we were not the only trio.
Driving back I didn't give a thought to those shadows, although maybe my son sensed them because he screamed as we passed some particularly significant landmarks. I settled myself in the back seat just inches from his face and sang the same lullabye over and again until we pulled onto our street. I remembered how it used to feel, sleeping on the way home from somewhere, and feeling the familiar turns and pauses, until the car slowed and I heard the creak of the emergency brake. Then my mother's soft voice coaxing us out of the car and to bed we went.
The path home is one early learned by heart. I always knew my way back from those back roads deep in the woods of Exeter. And sure enough, one day I decided I was finished being lost.photo by Nadia Dole