In the wake of her father's death, Spencer Edwards' mother packs up their lives from Oxford, England, and moves them to the middle-of-nowhere Texas. With an agitation for agriculture, and a distaste for anything farming, the small town of Cherry Spr...
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Unable are the Loved to die.For Love is immortality. - Emily Dickinson
Chapter Song - Dancing Barefoot by Patti Smith
Could it be psychotic of me to wish I had burned in that fire with my father?
Most likely, but I assure you it isn't a fantasy. It's just the need to be with him, be with someone who simply vanished into nothing. Into the thin air that is all around and inside of me, but so utterly far away.
It's unfair. Everything is unfair since dad's death.
My grief. Mum's grief. Both my little brothers grief.
There's this sorrow ghost inside of me. And I struggle to wonder if it was born recently, or if it was always there, and grew like a vine of ivy.
Unable are the Loved to die...For Love is Immortality, said by Emily Dickinson. Impeccable in her writings, but my dad is dead. And he was loved. He was said Loved, so why is he so dead?
"Spencer!" Mum mockingly calls through the busy Dallas airport.
Speeding up my steps, I catch up to her and my two younger brothers. "Do you have a clue where we are going?" I ask her, knowing she's the smartest woman ever, but her sense of direction was my dads fortay.
"Yes, yes, I do," she answers, obviously flustered. With the crowds loud and busy, the airport in Texas is utterly confusing to any naive tourist. "Alright, perhaps I don't have a clue." She admits.
"We came from that terminal, and we need to find baggage claim. So if we just keep going this way, surely a sign will appear." I say, looking around for a 'baggage claim' sign.
She shrugs. "Lets go, I suppose."
Eventually we find baggage claim, before making our way to the rental car place. And we've been in Texas all but two minutes, and it is obvious, everything really is bigger in Texas.
Catastrophically.
But as though we're a family of four, with two boys under the age of 13, we shockingly do carry much luggage with us. A colossal amount, but besides James, we're massive book worms who desperately can't breathe without our books.
Blame the Oxford University Professor as our mother.
"Alright," Mum huffs as she sits in the drivers seat - the drivers seat without a steering wheel. "Oh, hm. Forgot about that." She says, and we both switch seats, Oliver and James squabbling in the back.
