He loaded up all the coolers into the back of the van, and packed us in between the piles upon piles of bruised peaches; produce and electronics stacked around us too as we buckled ourselves in. Sometimes it seemed as if the supply of food and other essentials was endless, but not today. We were just tucked in snugly.
The suitcases always went in first, followed by the rest. Heaviest on the bottom and lightest at the top. Periously high piles seemed to pop up all around us as yet more things seemed to find places to fit. Even the smallest of spaces made made use of and every nook and cranny taken advantage of in order to fit all our belongings in without taking up the seats.
He slipped into his seat up front, coffee in hand, and asked us if we were ready to go. We always said yes only to find that five minutes later, when grandma pulled the passenger door open, that someone had forgotten to pee. Soon it became a routine, and it took half an hour to pack and stuff ourselves in, we did it without thinking.
We would smiled as we backed up out of the driveway knowing that soon enough we would see the housse again. Then it was a left at the end of the street and a quick right onto the main road from there, past the church and the timmies newly added to the end of polo park. We watched the jets, poised for flight, as we sped past and from there our journey really began.
Two hours, roughly, on the trans canada highway, in the middle of nowhere with no one but ourselves and the pastures of cows popping up every few miles for company. Canola fields, bee farms and hay bails aplenty but not much else around. No music but country once we passed the borders of the city, because the radio signals seemed to work that way, and random facts being spewed at us from the front every so often.
Staring at fields, playing your favorite songs on repeat, talking or joking as you felt the silence got too complete and petty arguments started mostly due to lack of sleep. The drive seemed shorter each time, as you began to recognize land marks and know exactly what to expect.
No sooner had we pulled into the long curving driveway than was everyone ready to pile out and carry our cargo inside. The door always creaked a little the first time, the wooden porch steps sqeuaking under the weight of the coolers and duffle bags.
It didn't matter if it was ten am or ten pm, it had to be done in an orderly fashion as quickly as possible. No one really spoke until it was all unloaded and then the choas began. Suitcases were lugged up the stairs to various rooms, sleeping arrangements were decided and the water system was checked.
It didn't matter what else went on because we were here again, home again, and the smile on his face when the work was all done, as he watched us play and argue and cause a ruckus, was worth more than any exotic luxury vacation. We were hime and he was always there to welcome us back again with open arms, that was more than enough for me. And always will be.
YOU ARE READING
With Broken Wings (2013)
Poetry"Take these broken wings and learn to fly again." This is my own personal story of overcoming my demons and my grief. I define my recovery. ι'ℓℓ вє уσυя ѕнσυℓ∂єя тσ cяу ση, уσυя яσcк ωнєη уσυ'яє ησт ѕтяσηg ι'ℓℓ вє уσυя нєαят ωнєη ιт'ѕ вяσкєη, му α...
