—Homesick—
Even though I live only about an hour’s drive from the place I grew up, I still sometimes feel homesick. I know the route home like the back of my own hand, every winding vein and sun spot. But once in my small town, I marvel at how much has changed. When I was a child, my grandparents, BigHead and Dot, lived in what I thought was the biggest house in town. The house had a second story and sat overlooking Monroe Bay. These days, the house is dwarfed by oversized villas and beach cottages on steroids. The town is still small, the same size as when I lived there, and yet somehow big houses are squeezed in every which way, all vying for some small view of the water.
I explore, feeling a bit like a tourist in my own hometown. I wander along side streets, crossing the four-block width of the peninsula, zig-zagging back and forth. I venture toward the outskirts of town and pull over to take this photograph. A field of wild daylilies, spread like a quilt across a stream, tucked just inside the Potomac River, near the home where old George Mason (the town’s only lawyer) once lived.
A lady and her fluffy little dog come out of the house. She watches me side-eyed as if trying to decide what I might be up to, standing there in the gully taking this picture. I am undaunted. I wave hello and shout that I stopped because of this breathtaking view—the sun skittering along the daylily quilt like so many tiny stitches made by hand. I tell her my name, but that is not enough. She wants to know my maiden name, too. When I tell her, she nods her head and says, “Yes, you look like your people. You’re okay.”
I laugh out loud and say back, “Of course I’m okay. This is my home.”