The Traveling Diva

And so I've become a gypsy of sorts, something I once found thrilling, and now find dysfunctional.  I live out of a Chevy Blazer and two suitcases, and sleep where my brother once slept as a child.  When dawn breaks I look out a window that should be familiar, yet isn't. 

I once stood there, behind the drapes, while my brother slept.  He woke, I jumped out, screaming something original, like "boo."  I don't remember what happened next.  I assume it probably involved an instrument of discipline known as "the stick."  I'm sure I got it, and although I no longer lurk behind anyone's drapes, for that one moment, the threat of "the stick" was worth it.  I feel bad for what I did to my brother, although I suspect he's long since forgotten that moment.  I haven't.  It makes me smile deviously, and reminds me that I'm not as far from home as I think.

Once a week I make a sad journey, traveling north, along a road I know well.  I ascend a familiar hill, and remnants of winter's savagery crunch beneath the tires of my old truck.  My heart beats rapidly those last few miles, as I approach the cabin where I have left my heart.

No one seems to understand my connection to this place, nor do I, at times.  But it is where I am meant to be, and there is something important I must do there.  This is something I accept as absolute truth.  It has become my new fight, to return to this place where laughter lingers, and dog hair floats of its own volition past an open window.

I leave the safety of my vehicle and tread quietly to the front door.  The key objects, but only slightly, and I open the door.  It smells like kerosene and sadness.  The eyes of numerous Boyd's Bears meet mine.  They seem to say, "we've missed you, and we could use a bath."  The couch sits in the center of an empty room.  No cats adorn its sagging back.  This is odd, for me, and for the couch, something neither of us has ever known.

The acrid smell of the kerosene assaults me, although it is fading, and my eyes water.  I blame the oil, yet I know it is the sting of emotion and not any pollutant. 

I am home, if only for a moment.  I complete what task I have come to do, and turn to leave.  "I will be back," I whisper.  I cannot explain how I know this.  I just do.