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

Comments about water and faucets trigger something. Is it a desire for information or a need for connection? In this strange aquatic parlance, I’m the beaver building a dam that holds the floodgates closed. Why does it take so much courage to initiate a simple conversation? I already know the answer. Words have always held such power for me. Sometimes you don’t realize how influential they can be until they’re out there. At that point, it’s too late. They can’t be taken back.

“So, I have a problem with my plumbing. Is there someone in town who might help?” I find it harder to say than I imagined it could be.

“You’re looking at him. Water pressure, right? I’ll fix that up for you in no time. Meant to do it myself but never got around to it. We should be able to pick up some couplers and a pipe wrench at Turner’s Hardware.” Suddenly, Hank is talkative and anxious. Those pesky words come back to haunt me. Why am I asking for help? I’m still not ready to invite someone into the sanctity of my home.

There’s that word again. Home. It’s becoming a more frequent occurrence in my daily vocabulary. “That’s okay. I know you’re busy, and . . . On second thought, I might try to tackle it myself.” The humming stops, and his gaze dips toward the ground. He grabs a peach from atop his carefully constructed fruit pyramid.

What did I say? Do people take that unkindly to a refusal of help? I don’t understand the proper etiquette of this new lifestyle yet. “Where’s Lydia?”

“At the farm, checking on some crops after that storm last night.” There’s a slight upturn in his mood at the mention of her name. “It’s her happy place since . . .” His head droops back down again. Since what? He seems somehow uneasy on those strolls with his wife along my stretch of sidewalk. But I can tell he enjoys them too.

“You like those afternoon walks with her, don’t you?”

A sheepish grin spreads across his face. “As much for the company as where it takes me. Even if there is some sadness to it.”

There’s a natural emotional connection with my newest friend. My tone becomes soft and empathetic. “How so?”

His hands clutch the sides of my paper bag filled with fruit, creases forming from his strong grip. Hank’s lost in a contemplative state before he releases his hold and places a final lemon in my collection. “The wet weather . . . it dampens my mood sometimes.”

“Me too.” It’s true, it does, but I know there’s something more to his comment. “You remember that thing they say about dancing in the rain and all, right?” I smile at him.

“I’ve always had two left feet.” He grins with appreciation as our own friendly clichéd dance begins.

“It only takes putting one foot in front of the other.” I take hold of a mock partner and begin the first few steps of a waltz.

“Only time will tell, I suppose.” Back and forth, it’s a game of wits as he passes me the bag of fruit, an attempt to disrupt my concentration.

“Shouldn’t be too tough, you’re fit as a fiddle.” I have several more lined up and ready to go.

“All’s well that ends well.” He winks at me, and a chilling sensation crawls from my toes to the top of my head. The way he said it and the grin on his face? He knows something I don’t. It’s not a comfortable feeling. Especially for someone who needs to understand everything that’s happening around them.

It summons an image of him, the man with no name whom I somehow already know. “Have you seen this . . . man, hanging out on the sidewalk across the street from my place?” I try to suppress the enchanted tone in my voice. Thinking about that moment creates a wave of emotion, even though nothing happened. Hank moves from humming to whistling, a sign that our figurative dance was exactly what he needed.

“You must be talking about Jack.” For some strange reason, the sound of his name warms my heart. I don’t understand why this is, but I can’t deny it. “Seen him a few times. Only thing I know about him is that he moved to Pigeon Grove about a year ago. He asked my permission to use the house as a subject for his art. Said the structure spoke to him in some quiet but powerful way.”

There’s that sensation again, a connection with something intangible but undeniably real. As chatty as I was, I retreat into silence, trying to grab hold of that elusive emotion that has no name. “He’s not a talkative one, similar to you in the beginning.” Hank pulls me from the murky cloud of ambiguity. “You should mingle with some of the other folks around town.” He pauses, flashing me a confusing smile before continuing. “Stanley will have what you need for that repair. And if you’d like some help, you know where to find me.”

“Your last name is Charles, right?” I’m not sure how this sudden realization arrives in my mind.

“Indeed.”

“But the shop is named Peterson Produce.”

“You’re a perceptive one.” He grins at me, knowing that my statement doubles as a question. “It’s Lydia’s maiden name. When we first embarked upon this adventure together, her dad provided us with the money to help get us started.” His gaze wanders over the expanse of their shop with fond reminiscence. “It’s the least we could do to show our appreciation. And I’ve always admired alliteration.” He chuckles, sharing another wink and a warm smile. “If you’d like some help with that pesky plumbing problem, you know where to find me.”

“Thanks, Hank.” It’s fitting how his name is embedded in that word of gratitude. I push through the door with more enthusiasm than when entering earlier. There was something therapeutic about my visit. I’ve suddenly realized reaching out to someone is as important as being reached out to. Even in the microcosm of a ten-minute sojourn, my thoughts have traveled everywhere. From blissful to discomfort to the unknown. Each of them felt . . . valuable and precious in its own way.

My planned route goes right, but I turn left instead. I have a bag full of more peaches than I need and barely enough lemons for a pitcher of lemonade. But I should have room for a few plumbing supplies. I float down the street, humming to the music still playing in my mind. Even though I have no partner, it’s a beautiful waltz. I gaze through the windows of each storefront, surprised when I stop and look closer.

There’s a woman staring back at me. Through a reflection of the sunlight overhead, she has a genuine smile on her face I haven’t seen in years.

8

A comforting cushion of air ushers me up the front sidewalk and through my front door. Stanley Turner was as helpful as Hank said he’d be. Not only did he explain the exact steps to resolve my plumbing problem, I also learned a few new things from him about the tools and parts involved in the process. My thoughts wander all over the emotional map, but there’s a small part of me that believes I might actually be able to pull this off.

I set my bag of fruit on the counter and place the project supplies next to it. Without thinking, I separate the peaches and lemons into different piles. Each mound before me begs for attention. There’s a treasure hidden inside one of them, and I’m asked to choose the right one.

There’s the plumbing materials—what I need. On the other end are the lemons—what I want. Then, in the middle, there are those peaches. They don’t fall into either category. I neither need nor want them. Is there something else that inhabits the apparent void between those two words, need and want?

I choose the pile of want in this moment and head toward the front porch. The lavender is overflowing and branching out to fill all available space in the planter. After I moved it from the spot in the side yard where it was struggling, it has flourished with new vigor. As I snip a few sprigs, I wonder whether there are parallels between flowers and life. Does transporting and trimming certain parts make a difference? Does it allow what’s left to return stronger and more vibrant than ever?

My fingers massage the velvety texture as I meander into the kitchen. Instinctively, I pull back the curtains, grab my trusty wooden spoon, and prop open the window. I juice the lemons into the pitcher. An occasional seed falls into the mix, requiring retrieval every few twists.

The process is calming. Becoming immersed in something routine distracts my analytic mind. In these moments, I find it easier to contemplate life on a different level. Things get tossed into our path without permission. Fragmented pieces of cork in a glass of wine. Fruit seeds in lemonade. A mother who broke me, in every conceivable definition of the word. Some experiences are simpler to push aside and ignore than others. It doesn’t mean they can’t all be stowed away in the past where they belong.

But there are some things we desperately wish to bring back into the present. Life is cruel that way, choosing what we’re allowed to keep and forced to let go.

I crush the violet herb, rub it between my fingertips, and sprinkle it in the pitcher. Remnants of the essential oils drift through the air with a soothing influence. The sugar and water go in next. I inhale with deliberate intentions and embrace the emotional cleansing process. The citrusy lemon, calming lavender, and intoxicating jasmine permeate my pores. It’s akin to a luxurious spa treatment for my delicate heart.

The wriggling stream from the faucet interrupts my blissful moment. It mixes with thoughts of the white flower, so close I can reach out and touch it. An unpleasant thought stirs inside. I open this window each time I enter the room to greet the fragrant trellis outside like an old friend. Now that trusty floral companion hinders me from completing the plumbing repair. It looks as though I’ll be able to test my theory again. Will transplanting and trimming back something have the effect I hope for?

Placing the pitcher in the refrigerator to chill, I ease through the front door. I pull my rocking chair to the far end of the porch. It’s a small section that wraps around the side. I don’t sit here often since it overlooks that field of overgrown weeds. I study the landscape with intensity. Different sizes and shapes mix. It creates something disorganized and . . .

The early-afternoon sunlight dances alongside a tiny chickadee. Mother Nature crafts a small shadowy refuge for him. He alights on the long stem of a weed swaying in the breeze. It’s chaotic . . . and beautiful.

I blink once, then twice. Is this real? The visual sensation before my eyes explodes with texture and color. It reaches out and wraps its arms around me in a comforting embrace. Catmint and hollyhocks fill the flowing vision of an English countryside. Sprigs of sage, dill, and thyme line the winding cobblestone pathways. There’s an arbor with climbing roses, framed by foxglove and phlox on either side. It’s the entrance to a haven of hope. I allow my lingering gaze to drift back toward the centerpiece of it all. A jasmine plant blooms freely and wildly in this surreal garden of love.

I must act now, lest this idyllic image flee my ephemeral memory. Rising from my seat with a sense of purpose, I keep my eyes locked on that expanse of land. My fingers grope for the door handle. When they find it, I dash