The Long Journey Home

A Seat at the Table

He could smell the goose and sweet potatoes cooking in the kitchen. His mother never failed to amaze him with the food she prepared. “Hello, Ma! That is some delicious smell coming from your kitchen.” He winked, hugging her.

“What news, Philip?” Tilly asked as her son kissed her cheek, handed her a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine for dinner.

“Not much. The train came as I was leaving town, but I didn’t wait to see who needed a ride. Most people are preparing for Thanksgiving. I’m asking after Emma Jenkins.” He smiled as his mother gushed her approval.

“You sly dog; isn’t she in mourning?” His sister, also named Emma, asked as she put the flowers into a vase.

“Yes, but she says mourning is for the old people and we have to live our lives. She also said pining after Joseph won’t bring him back.” Philip’s smile told on his emotions.

“She’s a smart girl.” Mary agreed while taking the wine bottle to the kitchen to chill on a block of ice Pa had brought up from the cellar.

“That she is, and beautiful, too.” Philip had never before blushed in his life until that moment.

“I’d say he’s besotted, girls, by the looks of him.” Gaius laughed as he came inside the kitchen door and hugged his son. Philip expected some ribbing from his family, and wasn’t embarrassed in the least. He was certainly smitten.

“Leave him alone, the lot of you. Dinner will be ready shortly. Mary, Emma, could you ask the older children to help set?” Tilly smiled, handing them each plates for the dinner table.

“I’m going outside for a few moments, Ma. I’ll tell them.” Philip volunteered as he smiled, grabbed his pipe out of his jacket, and ambled to the front door, whistling a lively tune that reminded him of Emma Jenkins. Maybe someday, soon he hoped she’d be Emma Montgomery.

“Nana Montgomery needs your help setting the table,” he jovially announced to the children. “I’ll stay and watch the others so you can help.” The children dashed to the porch. “Don’t forget to clean your shoes, or she’ll hand you the mop bucket after dinner.” He joked and patted them on the back as they did as he’d instructed.

He struck the match to stoke his pipe, wishing he‘d brought along his banjo. That would certainly keep them entertained for the next few minutes until his mother was ready for them to sit down. He drew a long breath on his pipe, thinking of a raven-haired girl and her deep green eyes. He looked around the yard, and remembrances seemed to circle him like ghosts from the past.

A bonfire raged; teen girls giggling and boys laughing, lively music playing, Dewy flirting with Ellisa Townsend between songs. Ma walked outside often enough to make sure no one was acting unseemly. Many times, Clem brought his violin for accompaniment and Joseph Carmichael played Ma’s washboard with a spoon for a form of percussion. Good times.

Philip looked up, seeing a ghost on a horse coming straight up the road. He knew then that the past was coming to life.

Until the ghost waved at him, dismounted and walked towards him.

He wasn’t an exact replica of his brother, but an older, wiser, more mature looking version of his little bratty sibling.

Then, the apparition called out to him.

“Philip! God, it’s good to see you! You look dashing as ever!” It was certainly Dewy’s voice, but no longer acted like or resembled him. For a moment, Philip didn’t move, breathe, or acknowledge him; too stunned to act.

“Don’t stand there like a statue. Come here and let me shake your hand.”

“No!” Philip’s one syllable reply caused Dewy to draw back like he’d shot a gun instead of greeting him.