Dreaming can't protect us anymore

My trip to my mother's hometown held especial significance for me this time. My aunt lives in a house on Third Avenue; obviously, three blocks from Downtown. Downtown consists of one block, ten buildings, and four or five pick-up trucks that constantly linger in the center of Main Street. However, if you turn the corner on Main Street, you will find yourself on Railway Avenue. Walk down Railway Avenue for about ten minutes and the smooth road will suddenly crumble into dusty dirt. This dirt road winds its way along the track, and at the very end of the road, behind a wild spring of bushes that proudly marks the edge of town, is my mom's house.

This trip was the first time I made the walk to their house all alone. I have walked the tracks countless times with my mom, and exclaimed over their little bungalow; the chicken coop my uncle built all on his own; the old water pump that still stands next to the house; Grandma's tiny, grey-washed house. We would tumble down the steep grassy hill to explore the depth of the culvert and discover jewel-like marsh marigolds and wild roses, and then she would trace the path the cows would meander every morning (it had been her job to get them back to the house for milking).

But this trip, I took a walk every evening on my own. I would start geometrically and gradually chop my walk tighter and tighter and I wound towards the center of town. I would march the length of Main Street, admiring the stores. Then I would turn the corner at Railway Avenue and set off towards the end of the road.

There was a feeling that mingled in the air along with the dust and the smell of hay and French lilacs. It was a bittersweet longing to be back when my mom and her family still lived there. Standing on the road across the ditch from Grandma's house, I could see my mom at eight years old, running across the lawn and giggling to her sisters. I could see her when she was eleven, awake at 5:00 AM in order to call the cows back from the pasture. I could hear her footsteps on the road, running to school or to town to go to the library while my baba shopped. And I wanted to be there with her. I wanted to meet her, to be her friend.

I wanted to protect her from all the terrible things I knew were coming her way.