Spoiler! :
When I moved to the desert one year ago, I didn’t realize how much I’d miss my home.
The anniversary of my move falls on an ordinary Thursday. It’s a date I remember well because in Montana I had been looking forward to it for so long. My joints were aching to leave those bitter, snow-bound winters, when it didn’t matter how many woolen layers you wore because the frost would always seep its way through, into marrow. Like any sensible old lady with arthritis, I knew it was time to leave.
Montana’s send-off party was a full-blown snowstorm, making my decision seem all the more sensible. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to the creek or the mountains or the forests; they were all covered in a white, snowy fog.
The desert’s welcome, on the other hand, was a blast of hot air. I loved it. I still love it.
But not in the same way that I love my home, Montana.
Today, Thursday, I sit at the window with a glass of ice tea and comment upon how ugly my neighborhood is.
“Sand. It’s all just sand,” I tell my daughter, who’s on the other end.
“You wanted to move, Mom,” she says.
“Sand-colored houses. Sand-colored sidewalk. Sand-colored pebbles for a sand-colored front yard. At least Mrs. Dunbar tried to add some color with her succulent garden, but that kind of pale green hardly counts.” I pause, and look at the phone. “Phooey! Even the phone is sand-colored.”
“Like I’ve said, you could come back up to visit.”
“In the winter?” I retort. “Never.”
“Sometime else, I mean. Look, Mom, I gotta go. Ryan needs to be picked up from school. Maybe you should look into traveling a bit. See what’s around.”
“There’s nothing in a desert,” I mutter. I know I’m being just about as negative as I could be, but I don’t care. I’m in a sour mood. I miss my home.
“What about the mountain tours?”
“Mountain tours?”
“Yeah. That thing where you ride a little tram up into the mountains and they let you hike up there before it’s time to go down again. Mike and I did it last time we visited, remember? We said you’d love it.”
“That’s right, I remember. Where -”
“I’m sorry Mom, but Ryan’s waiting. Love you!”
I put down the phone. My eyes drift over the sand-colored houses and gardens and sidewalks and settle on the great brown folds of earth planted above the dusty fog. There isn’t any snow on top like the ones in Montana, but mountains are mountains, right?
I decide to give the desert another chance.
The next morning, I’m on that tram. It’s chock-full of tourists, and again I wonder how I’ve lived here for and haven’t done this yet.
The first pine tree I see catches me by surprise. I didn’t know I’d be seeing any pines.
I lean over the railing and plaster my hands to the window, feeling like a little girl again. I watch it for as long as I can, eventually weaving between passengers and securing a spot at the back window, where I watch the tree until it disappears behind a bend in the rock.
I can hear gasps of awe and wonder coming from the front of the tram. I shove through the people again (old lady, coming through), and follow their gaze. My heart trembles with what I see: a whole forest of them unfolds in front of me, nestled in a crook of the mountains like a little pocket of paradise.
I want to tell the driver to stop the tram so that I can climb out and breathe the fresh Montana air. Because that’s where I think I am - home. Up ahead, I can see more and more pockets of trees, tumbling over the rifts in the mountain and squeezing between cracks in the mantles of stone.
When the tram pulls to a stop, I step out on shaky legs. My eyes are rimmed with tears. I can smell the pines.
A wooden stairway guides us down onto a dirt path. The other passengers surge ahead of me, and before long I am left on my own. I take one ginger step at a time as I descend the stairs, and I don’t even mind when the wooden handrail leaves a splinter in my palm. I accept it as a souvenir.
The path is beautiful, leading me over fallen logs and under smiling trees. It is, perhaps, too rugged a trail for a woman my age, but I appreciate the concentration it requires. It keeps my mind off of my shaky emotions for a little while, as I’m focused on overstepping pine cones and weaving between boulders.
Along the trail, I find a lookout point. By the time I reach it, everyone has already moved on.
Everyone, that is, except one person.
His back is to me, but I recognize him instantly. He has the same broad shoulders and the same thick, silver hair. He even has that silly old cowboy hat of his in one of his hands, removed in respect for the heavenly vista before him.
My husband turns around, and gives me a smile. He puts his silly hat back on.
I am speechless and surprised, but not frightened. He motions for me to stand next to him, and takes my hand. I tremble inside, my heart fluttering with joy at his touch. His hands are rough and wrinkled, but the fingers are just as nimble as they’ve always been.
He turns my hand over so that my palm is facing upward, finds the splinter, and plucks it out.
When he’s finished, he takes my other hand and cups them both in his. “I think it’s about time you went home,” he says.
I nod guiltily. I had left him at the foothills of a Montana mountain, only for him to find me in a desert one. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He smiles, and reaches out his hand, gently closing my eyelids. “I want you to dream about our home,” he says, “and before you know it, I’ll take you there.”
I do as he says. First I picture the sunset-kissed mountains in the springtime, their crevasses rimming with snow. The bubbling creek by our bedroom window serves as the soundtrack of summer, and is ripe with little fish that our daughter loves to watch and paint. I immediately bristle when I think of the cold, but then I feel my husband’s arms circling me, protecting me from the frost.
Together, we watch the snow fall.
The anniversary of my move falls on an ordinary Thursday. It’s a date I remember well because in Montana I had been looking forward to it for so long. My joints were aching to leave those bitter, snow-bound winters, when it didn’t matter how many woolen layers you wore because the frost would always seep its way through, into marrow. Like any sensible old lady with arthritis, I knew it was time to leave.
Montana’s send-off party was a full-blown snowstorm, making my decision seem all the more sensible. I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye to the creek or the mountains or the forests; they were all covered in a white, snowy fog.
The desert’s welcome, on the other hand, was a blast of hot air. I loved it. I still love it.
But not in the same way that I love my home, Montana.
Today, Thursday, I sit at the window with a glass of ice tea and comment upon how ugly my neighborhood is.
“Sand. It’s all just sand,” I tell my daughter, who’s on the other end.
“You wanted to move, Mom,” she says.
“Sand-colored houses. Sand-colored sidewalk. Sand-colored pebbles for a sand-colored front yard. At least Mrs. Dunbar tried to add some color with her succulent garden, but that kind of pale green hardly counts.” I pause, and look at the phone. “Phooey! Even the phone is sand-colored.”
“Like I’ve said, you could come back up to visit.”
“In the winter?” I retort. “Never.”
“Sometime else, I mean. Look, Mom, I gotta go. Ryan needs to be picked up from school. Maybe you should look into traveling a bit. See what’s around.”
“There’s nothing in a desert,” I mutter. I know I’m being just about as negative as I could be, but I don’t care. I’m in a sour mood. I miss my home.
“What about the mountain tours?”
“Mountain tours?”
“Yeah. That thing where you ride a little tram up into the mountains and they let you hike up there before it’s time to go down again. Mike and I did it last time we visited, remember? We said you’d love it.”
“That’s right, I remember. Where -”
“I’m sorry Mom, but Ryan’s waiting. Love you!”
I put down the phone. My eyes drift over the sand-colored houses and gardens and sidewalks and settle on the great brown folds of earth planted above the dusty fog. There isn’t any snow on top like the ones in Montana, but mountains are mountains, right?
I decide to give the desert another chance.
The next morning, I’m on that tram. It’s chock-full of tourists, and again I wonder how I’ve lived here for and haven’t done this yet.
The first pine tree I see catches me by surprise. I didn’t know I’d be seeing any pines.
I lean over the railing and plaster my hands to the window, feeling like a little girl again. I watch it for as long as I can, eventually weaving between passengers and securing a spot at the back window, where I watch the tree until it disappears behind a bend in the rock.
I can hear gasps of awe and wonder coming from the front of the tram. I shove through the people again (old lady, coming through), and follow their gaze. My heart trembles with what I see: a whole forest of them unfolds in front of me, nestled in a crook of the mountains like a little pocket of paradise.
I want to tell the driver to stop the tram so that I can climb out and breathe the fresh Montana air. Because that’s where I think I am - home. Up ahead, I can see more and more pockets of trees, tumbling over the rifts in the mountain and squeezing between cracks in the mantles of stone.
When the tram pulls to a stop, I step out on shaky legs. My eyes are rimmed with tears. I can smell the pines.
A wooden stairway guides us down onto a dirt path. The other passengers surge ahead of me, and before long I am left on my own. I take one ginger step at a time as I descend the stairs, and I don’t even mind when the wooden handrail leaves a splinter in my palm. I accept it as a souvenir.
The path is beautiful, leading me over fallen logs and under smiling trees. It is, perhaps, too rugged a trail for a woman my age, but I appreciate the concentration it requires. It keeps my mind off of my shaky emotions for a little while, as I’m focused on overstepping pine cones and weaving between boulders.
Along the trail, I find a lookout point. By the time I reach it, everyone has already moved on.
Everyone, that is, except one person.
His back is to me, but I recognize him instantly. He has the same broad shoulders and the same thick, silver hair. He even has that silly old cowboy hat of his in one of his hands, removed in respect for the heavenly vista before him.
My husband turns around, and gives me a smile. He puts his silly hat back on.
I am speechless and surprised, but not frightened. He motions for me to stand next to him, and takes my hand. I tremble inside, my heart fluttering with joy at his touch. His hands are rough and wrinkled, but the fingers are just as nimble as they’ve always been.
He turns my hand over so that my palm is facing upward, finds the splinter, and plucks it out.
When he’s finished, he takes my other hand and cups them both in his. “I think it’s about time you went home,” he says.
I nod guiltily. I had left him at the foothills of a Montana mountain, only for him to find me in a desert one. “I’m sorry,” I say.
He smiles, and reaches out his hand, gently closing my eyelids. “I want you to dream about our home,” he says, “and before you know it, I’ll take you there.”
I do as he says. First I picture the sunset-kissed mountains in the springtime, their crevasses rimming with snow. The bubbling creek by our bedroom window serves as the soundtrack of summer, and is ripe with little fish that our daughter loves to watch and paint. I immediately bristle when I think of the cold, but then I feel my husband’s arms circling me, protecting me from the frost.
Together, we watch the snow fall.
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