Fly Away Home

Chapter 7

The overnight storm was relentless. It pounded on the roof all night, thunderous claps mixing with similar thoughts in my mind. The sound of rain failed to exhibit the same soothing effect it did on my first morning in Pigeon Grove. Wind howled, and the house creaked, as if pleading for mercy. My physical and emotional joints do the same as dawn greets me. With every shared moment here, I realize this structure has a lot in common with me.

With sleepy eyes and a coffee pot beneath the running faucet, I pull open the curtains. Natural sunlight fills the room. Weather can change so quickly. It brings something resembling a smile to my face despite the weight of my thoughts.

Heaviness, or the lack of it, arrives in a more pragmatic and immediate way. Looking down at the glass container meant to provide me with a morning caffeine boost, it's less than half full. There's a small stream of water meandering along the metal fixture and into the basin. It reminds me of a slithering snake attempting to go unnoticed. The meager pressure coming from the spigot spoils its covert attempt to elude me. Peeking under the sink, it would normally be a good sign I see no puddles, but not this time. It means the source of my problem is on the outside.

We're in sync once again. This structure has surrendered some of its gusto, just like me. My bubbling enthusiasm upon arriving here has been on a steady decline. Two steps forward and one back has flip-flopped over the past couple weeks. The serendipitous discovery of this house was a euphoric moment for me. It's not lost on me how sad it is that I feel more connected to a human habitat than I do any other person in my life. But I have developed a camaraderie with Hank and Lydia. That's something I was neither wanting nor expecting. Another small step in a positive direction, I suppose.

Still, my conversation with Russell? And the unexplained appearance of that man on the sidewalk? It's all so confusing. My emotions are being tugged every which way, and I can't wrap my head around everything. I moved here to simplify things, not complicate them. So far, small-town life is turning out to be more chaotic and complex than my suburban existence.

***

I wander down Main Street like a child looking for her lost puppy dog. It's only as I arrive at the door to Hank and Lydia's produce shop that I realize my intended destination. Over the past several weeks, I've come here to short-circuit the daily conversations in front of my house. A way to protect and preserve my private time on the porch. Alone. Now, I seek their companionship, not to buy fruit I don't need, but to simply be in their presence.

"Good morning to you, Claire. What can I get for you today, the usual?" Hank grins, his tone warm. It's so different from the detail-oriented person who passes by me on the sidewalk each day.

"Six peaches, one orange, and all the lemons you have, please." I keep hoping he'll inundate me with more yellow fruit than I'm able to carry, but it never works out that way. He always seems in short supply. The silence between us, while awkward to me, isn't bothering Hank a bit. He's humming to a song on the radio. Something about rainfall in Georgia. I watch him gather only the best selection from his stock for me. It's a personal touch I appreciate.

He chuckles midway through the chorus. "Speaking of rain, someone should remind Mother Nature to turn off her faucet in the sky. We've gotten more wet stuff than we can handle over the past week."

Comments about water and faucets trigger something. Is it a desire for information or a need for connection? In this strange aquatic parlance, I'm the beaver building a dam that holds the floodgates closed. Why does it take so much courage to initiate a simple conversation? I already know the answer. Words have always held such power for me. Sometimes you don't realize how influential they can be until they're out there. At that point, it's too late. They can't be taken back.