Roots
Here I am on the front steps of my childhood home in Little Rock. Many's the time I have sat here and waited for a friend to come get me or just watched the traffic go by, hoping to see this one or that one. Gosh, I take up a lot of space. I always thought I was small sitting there. The house is empty now and on my recent trip, I made my companions stop and let me do this. It felt surprisingly normal and just like always, except it was likely the last time. The cement is cracked in many places, both here and on the driveway.
I still feel as though my mother and father are inside waiting for me.
That's not true of course. My father has moved to another house in another town.
Here's the old back yard, minus the statuary. My mother's gardenia bush is thriving, but not in bloom. I had hoped I might be overpowered by its fragrance one more time. But I can never remember when the darn thing blooms.
Last time I visited, we went into the house and found one of my mother's canes behind one of the doors. It was sad. This time we didn't go in.
But there were lots of happy moments in the visit too.
What could be happier than a really good margarita?
At Jose's in Hot Springs, the bar stools are saddles. Can you see them?
That's pretty happy.
Being with my daughter and niece always makes me happy.
And being with my dad makes me happy and proud. He's a great man and a smart one. You give him a subject and he knows something about it. Cumberland Gap? No sweat. Keynesian economics? Got it. Actually, he doesn't keep up with Razorback sports, so I guess that's his weak spot on Jeopardy.
More later,
love,
becky
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