the long way home [ h.s. ]

Epilogue | ...

epilogue | ...

☓

I don't know if there's such thing as a perfect moment, but if I had to choose something fairly close, it would be this:

Standing in the night air, a coat wrapped tightly around myself, shifting idly from foot to foot in the middle of a city square. I'm surrounded by people; families bundled up to escape the December chill, holding each other's hands and carrying children up on their shoulders.

It's dark above.

Hundreds of faces stare eagerly at the unlit Douglas fir in the middle of the square, its silver bells and golden trim glinting faintly. I hear the eager questions of toddlers, wondering what's about to happen, or how much longer it'll take.

Their parents tell them to be patient.

Watch.

All around, the city lights are glistening against the slushed roads, casting everything in reds and blues and greens. It's stark against the blackness of the sky, and I marvel at the simple beauty of it. My breath makes white clouds in front of me. I feel a chill run through my body and pull the coat tighter, my numb fingers finding solace in the fabric of the sleeves.

There's a smile on my face.

A few miles from here, my empty dorm room is waiting with its red-and-gold ribbons, and a half-packed suitcase by my bed. I've been at the university for a few months now and genuinely enjoy myself here. The English class I'm taking is wonderful, and my roommate Sarah wants to be a writer, like me.

Making friends is something that happens naturally, now. It's everything I could ever want and more.

But despite this, I'm counting down the days until I see my family again. It feels like forever since I've held Thomas in my arms, or listened to the sound of my mother's voice, and my father's laugh. They've been keeping me strong now that I'm away. Mom calls often, and Dad helps Thomas to write letters.

He isn't stuttering much, nowadays.

Ever since the boys in his class changed their tune, he's found a confidence that I never could've dreamed. What used to be a severe hindrance has mellowed the point where it's noticeable, but not predominant.

Fear always makes things into more than what they truly are. In Thomas' case, his constant fear brought out the most vulnerable part of him.

A few days before I left for school I pulled him close, and he whispered the words "I'll miss you, Piglet," as clear as day. It wasn't the largest sentence, or the fanciest of words, but in that moment I felt like I'd witnessed a miracle so big that it could shake the earth.

He's happy, now.

I know that he is.

And that's all I've ever wanted for him.

As I'm brought back to the sea of people, I feel a slight stinging in my eyes. Hurriedly I blink it away, not wanting to lose it in front of a crowd. I can't help being emotional. Everything that's happened in the past year runs through my mind in short bursts of sound and color: the hidden smiles, the laughter, the simplicity of being.