Fly Away Home, - [reading tree .TXT] 📗

I HAVE BEEN SPENDING more time walking up and down Main Street. Slowly, I’m expanding my acceptance of Pigeon Grove. I have Hank to thank for that. There’s a part of me that longs for more of his peculiar insights. I buy fruits and vegetables from him I don’t need. I could choose to stop in for a chat only, but I’m not ready for that level of geniality yet.

Something is different about Hank when I visit his shop. He’s less analytical and distracted than he is on those afternoon walks with Lydia. He becomes softhearted and emotional in his store. Can being around produce have that effect on someone? If anyone knows, he would be the person to ask. I’ll do that someday, when I have more gumption. For now, I stroll back down the street with another paper bag full of peaches and lemons. More of the former as the latter always seems in short supply.

I push open my front door and instinctively move toward the kitchen. I pull Lydia’s cookbook from my shelf and thumb to the page with her peach tart recipe. It was nice of her to lend it to me. I’m slowly filling my house with new things, while keeping a few of the old ones hidden away in a safe place.

Tracing my index finger down the ingredient list, I find mint and fresh orange juice. Of all the fruit on my counter, an orange is not one of them. I pull the carton of store-bought juice from the refrigerator. Close enough. Grabbing a pair of snipping scissors from the drawer, I meander toward the front porch. Those vacant flower boxes now overflow with green herbs. The varied scents and textures add something inviting to the farmhouse curb appeal. And it’s nice to be part of an organic and self-sustaining growth process.

I slip back inside and turn the knob on my radio, tuning to the local country station. I never listen to this music, but everyone else here does. I might as well give it an honest go. I grab the wooden spoon reserved for propping open the kitchen window. Once a willing partner, it now needs a bit more persuasion to cooperate with my desire for fresh air.

I glide around the room, from the counter to the refrigerator and back to the cupboard. There’s a natural flow to my movements. They’re somehow in sync with a combination of the music’s melody and the recipe ingredients. That thought about lemonade resurfaces. Sweet and sour. How two seemingly unrelated qualities can fit so well together. How is it that music and peaches blend with such harmony? I sprinkle mint into the bowl as my thoughts, baking and otherwise, merge as one. Is it possible to mix different things elsewhere in life to create something new and . . . ?

I can’t think the word that follows, let alone vocalize it. Best not allow my wishes to float too high. Hope is a dangerous tightrope to walk. Especially when there’s nothing to balance myself with, and no safety net below to catch me when I fall.

#

WITH MY PEACH TART baking in the oven, I lean against the counter. Closing my eyes, I inhale the complementary scents of fruit and jasmine. More yin and yang, the smells coming from inside and outside. But it’s the song on the radio that permeates the room and conjures a sense that has no name.

Love was always for someone else, but in a world of so few surprises, there’s still a few surprises left.

I think about my path through life so far. I’ve always known where I’m headed, even if it hasn’t been toward a place I dreamed of being. But now I don’t know. About anything. A foreboding thought creeps into my consciousness. I made a courageous choice to move here, but I feel more lost than ever. Still, I wonder, might this be the best thing that could have happened to me?

There’s something about the delicious combination of lyrics and melody. It creates a moment of internal radiance, coming from a place I never knew existed. I open my eyes to make sure I’m not dreaming. That’s when I see him.

Seated on the ground across the street, a man stares intently at my farmhouse. He tilts his head to the right, then the left, before pulling out a pencil and placing it in his mouth. Clenching his teeth, he reaches a hand into his bag. He retrieves a sketchbook, never taking eyes off his subject. He continues to study it with an intense interest.

I watch as his gaze darts back and forth between the house and his pad of paper. It’s mesmerizing. There’s an intimate connection between the physical world and his mind’s eye. I sense his imagination transforming an inanimate object into something full of emotion.

Guilty thoughts for spying on him creep in, but I can’t look away. Besides, he’s drawing my home. Home. It’s the first time I’ve referred to this place by that name. What is happening? Things are becoming hazy and distorted. Should I embrace this unknown feeling or push it aside?

He glances up at the roofline. As if reading my thoughts, he slides his eyes toward the kitchen window. And finds me. In a panic, I pull back, hiding behind the thin fabric of the curtain. My heart pounds in my chest, perfectly in sync with the rhythm of that song.

I tug the curtains closed and stare at my trembling hands. Even if this reaction resembles those of my childhood, it doesn’t feel like the same thing. It’s not fear but something else. I recall that pilled blanket. It did little to protect me from the harsh reality waiting outside its permeable border.

It creates doubt that a tattered strip of plaid cloth will do any better. A freshening breeze blows through the open window, revealing a glimpse of him. Still looking right at me. Or through me. Nothing can keep him from seeing deep into my soul. Especially at a moment when I’m this vulnerable.

6

The charred scent of peaches invades my conscience like smelling salts. A coffee jingle about filling your cup to the brim every day replaces soothing music on the radio. I peel back the curtain nervously. It’s all gone, the calming influence of that song and the presence of that mystifying man. My heartbeat is out of sync with everything surrounding me. How long have I been adrift in this unfamiliar state?

I recognize the shrill coming from my phone only after the third ring. I should thank the person on the other end. Without it, I might have noticed the smoke seeping through the oven door a little too late.

“Hello?” I am out of breath, though I haven’t undertaken any physical exertion to warrant it.

“Claire Bear?” I haven’t heard that name in years. Why does this ride through life feel like a sadistic combination of roller coaster and funhouse? The monotonous climb followed by a breathless fall is nauseating enough. But the assortment of trick mirrors and shifting floors only adds to the confusion. Are there any straight-and-level pieces on this journey? The dizzying effects keep me from reorienting myself when I need it the most.

“Hello, Russell.” I don’t use his childhood nickname, Stover. He was the sweetest big brother a sister could dream of while growing up. We never talked about what happened behind closed doors with our abusive mother. But he was always there to refocus my attention on something more positive.

I turn off the oven, retrieve my baking disaster from inside, and slide the window open further. A faint drift of smoke dissipates through the wider gap. The pane of glass stays in place without the need for an even larger wooden spoon that I don’t have. The house seems to know there’s too much to handle in this moment, and it has little to do with the mess in the kitchen.

I might as well take another look. Craning my neck both ways, I hope to catch a final glimpse of that mysterious artist on the sidewalk. Nothing. The phone cord wraps around me like a lasso, pulling me back into the present.

“Claire? Are you okay?” Am I okay? Why didn’t he call to ask that while I was forced to sift through piles of boxes with bad memories by myself? Cynical thoughts bubble to the surface, but my softhearted