Called Back Home

I had always run away from my childhood even before my feet knew how to walk.  I did not want to end up like my father, a fisherman who barely knew what the world was beyond the outskirts of our small rural town.  Our home was small, three rooms that my mother had managed to make into a kitchen, living room, 2 bedrooms, and a bathroom.  She was talented like that though at the time I never gave her much credit for it.  My sister Kalli was 4 years younger than me.  She chased me around the house with those dark eyes that followed me.  Kalli worshipped me in the way younger sisters do.  She hung on every word I spoke, each action I did even as it propelled me further and further away from her.  

I finally escaped when I was not much more than 16.  In the dead of night, I packed my bookbag with just enough to get me started, and the few dollars I had managed to put aside from working on the boat with my father.  When I had escaped to the capital I had never intended to return to my home ever again, but fate has a way of making fools of even our most concrete thoughts.  It would be three years later that I would find myself in the dead of night staring at the television screen.  Of course, it would be a tragedy that finally made my home town worthy of the news.  I watched as the scenes that had once been so familiar to me were now lit in flames.  The raiders had always been a distant warning, the enemy that had seemed so far away until they found their way to your doorstep.  The people I had called friends, neighbors, family even if not by blood, were lined up in neat rows, their faces planted into the ground.  I did not know I was crying until I felt the wetness fall down the side of my face.  I tried to look away, afraid to see the faces of my family, my father's strong jaw, my mother’s prized black curls, my sister's favorite blue dress.  

The train that had helped me escape no longer made stops in my town.  No one wanted to go to a place where no one was left to see.  I rented a car and drove down the dirt road back to my past.  I watched out the window as the trees changed from the tall evergreens that expanded up into the dark night sky into the deciduous trees of my home region.  I kept my eyes straight as best as I could, focused on the journey because every beat of my heart was afraid of the destination.  I did not let my mind wander afraid of the places my thoughts would lead me.  My father would have told me not to worry unless I had to, but it did not stop the fear that gripped my heart.  Each second of my trip brought me a moment closer to answers to questions I was afraid to ask.  

When I saw the simple skyline of what had once been my home, I felt my foot slam on the breaks.  The fires had died out leaving nothing but the outlines of buildings I barely recognized.  Bricks from the general store lay scattered across the center of town, lost among the rubble of the owner’s house.  I had gone to school with his eldest daughter.  She had a sweet smile and a dimple that would peek out from her cheeks whenever she laughed. She was going to grow up to be a mother. I had always looked down at her for such a simple aspiration, but now even that would be denied to her.  

It was in the center of town where they lined up most of the bodies. Simple blue tarps covered each giving the illusion of waves upon the sea.  Some of the tarps were too small and work boots poked out still with dirt encased on them.  Some were far too big and you could only make out the small outline of a body from a life cut short far too early.  I looked up to see a soldier pulling out a small body of a woman from the rubble.  She had been my teacher.  She always sang songs with a sweet soprano voice that echoed the small brick walls of the one-room schoolhouse.  She used her own money to buy food for the kids that did not have any and leave them as little gifts in their otherwise empty lunchbox.  They laid her next to a tall man that I could only guess had been her husband.  They had married the summer before I had run away and had invited the entire town to their reception.  My mother had made her famous gravy and biscuits.  I still remembered how sweet they tasted, the smell that had filled the kitchen as she made them.  They had looked so happy standing next to each other.  He had gripped her hand so gently as he had said his vows that he had written to her.  Had they had a chance to have kids?  I was afraid to look because I did not want to know the answer.  

Another soldier stood with a clipboard in front of rows of bodies.  He looked up at me as I approached. He was from the national guard.  I could tell by the bright red vest that covered his otherwise forest green shirt and pants.  

“What are you doing here?  This is not a tourist attraction.”  His voice was empty and I could only imagine that staring out at a sea of loss as a living must eat away at your soul.  

“I, I used to live here.” I found myself saying. 

He paused for a moment before speaking, allowing the sadness to drift over his eyes.  It was the first of any emotion he would betray me.

“I am sorry.” was all he said.

“Was there any warning?”  I wanted to ask if anyone had managed to escape if there was some hope that maybe my family was alive, but the words failed me.

“They came in the middle of the night.  They never come this far south, never.  We came too late.”   There was a sense of guilt that played across his words and I easily recognized my own in response. I should have been here.  It was an irrational thought. I knew that well enough.  My presence would have just been another grave to dig.  

I walked towards my home finding each step heavier and heavier.  There were a few houses left standing, but most of the houses were made of wood so they lit up like a match when the fire started.  The church in the middle of town was one of the few structures left standing,  The tall white walls made grey by the smoke and the ash.  My father and mother had always been very religious people.  He had always brought the pastor the finest catch of each season as there was never money for tithes.   My mother had sewn quilts that she always donated right before the cold season.  I remember seeing the little children lined up outside the church snuggled in her patterns as they waited for the food pantry to open.  Our town never had much, but no one ever starved or was left cold.  You always gave what you could and you helped when you were able.  

These people, they were not perfect, but I had never seen them for what they had been, happy.  Even in the simplicity of their lives, they had lived more joyfully than I had in my years in the capital.  I had not seen them for their worth until it was far too late to thank them for all they had given to me. 

I stood in front of my home.  It had seemed so small but within these walls laid the fabric of my childhood.  The memories flew before me in flashes of sounds and images.  I saw my mother and father dancing late at night by the fireplace when they thought we were asleep.  I could see my sister curled up on the floor asleep with a book laid open beside her.  I could smell dinner and hear my mother’s voice calling us together to the table.  I could feel my sister’s hand against my own as we said grace. This was how I wanted to remember this place.  The moments that were filled with love that no war could pull away from me.  Even as I buried my father, mother, and sister and laid flowers on their graves, all I could think of was the place in my heart where they would always live.  It was from my memories that I would always be called back home.