Mistaken Passion

I

        The airplane landed on solid floor, and I could breathe again. Two hours on a plane while being panicked and squished by many people was a disaster. Heights tortured me like toxic flooding through my veins. Once I entered into the building I relaxed, landed in the bathroom puking out what I had eaten for breakfast. Maybe the bus ride would have been better for me I thought as I began to fix myself. I went in search for my bags and headed towards the outside. The heat embraced me when the doors opened. I saw a familiar man, about 5'10" with sideburns. He looked the same as last year and I started to laugh as he smiled at me. I would never forget my uncle’s face. As I reached him I dropped my bags and enveloped him in a hug.

        “You’re so big,” he said appearing happier than me. He released me from the hug and after month of weakness, I finally got the energy to smile.

        “It’s only been one year,” I say gladly.

        “Yeah, but that year was dreadful for your grandmother and my family. Ruby, I'm just so happy to see you.”

        “I'm happy to see you too; I’ve missed you so much, especially after what happened. I wanted you there with me to go through it all.”

        He looked at me and hugged me again, “I know honey, I am so sorry for the accident, and you know I wished I was there to help you.” I looked up at him fighting back tears. “I just couldn’t let your grandmother stay here while I go off, she needs my help too.” I nodded my head, “I know.” I couldn’t let go of him and he never complained. I finally got the urge to let go. “Well we should get going,” he said quickly before a tear could fall.

        As my uncle grabbed my bags, I didn't say a word. Pete led me to his truck. It looked just like it always did, mud on the tires, smudges on the windshield.

        We were on our way home, a long way from this airport as I turned the radio on; Dustin Lynch begins to sing Cowboys and Angels. I remember when my dad used to love listening to this song back in our little house in Texas. We would paint together on the back porch, listening to country even if I didn’t like it so much. We would paint pictures of anything we could get our hands on. We would get random objects and bunch them up on the table and paint what we felt about it. The day before he died we were going to paint that afternoon. He had gathered all these objects from the nearest goodwill and I thought they were so awesome. There was a brown antique compass, a navy blue shirt with a sailor’s hat on the pocket, white feathers that appeared to be from a hat or some sort of accessory and some other antique objects. We couldn’t after all paint because he was called in at work and we needed the money, so my dad had to leave. I know the reason my dad listened to it so much was because my mother always did. It made him happy so it made me happy. I took out my journal as I begin thinking while the wind passed my ears. I loved feeling the wind grasp all your feelings of sadness, grief, anger and just send it behind your body into the darkness.

        I started to write about the meadows and the sun shining onto every tree in the fields; the cows chopping on the green grass and the crows flying over the dirt.

        “What you doing there?” Pete asked curiously. I disliked telling people about my writing, I just felt it was something that I should keep to myself.

        “Nothing, just passing the time,” I could tell her knew I was lying.

        “You shouldn’t lie Ruby. I know your writing.” I laughed. “What? I know you like writing, your father was the same. Every day he would write, I think that’s all he did when he was a kid.”

        “Don’t tell me you used to be mean to my dad because he would always write?”

       “Well I am his older brother and it’s just something we do,” he chuckled after his words. I playfully hit him on the shoulder with my fist as laughs echoed in the car.