Home

“Home.” The word felt so good to say as I stepped onto the ground for the first time since my plane left Bermuda. People bustle around me making me feel lost in the crowd. Finally, on my way out of the secure area, I spot the very person I can’t wait to see, Greg. I run to him as fast as the wheels on my suitcase will let me and throw my arms around him. “You came!” I cry.

“I couldn’t miss my girlfriend’s arrival home, could I?”

I raise an eyebrow at him and we start walking in the direction of his car.

“So, tell me all about it! The museums, the parties… everything!” he says as he puts my bags in the trunk.

Images of Paris, London, and Rome flash across my mind as he mentions my trip. I don’t know where to begin. It was all so enchanting. “It was… perfect.” I finally say. “I learned so much and I collected more information than I’ll need for my project. I can’t wait to start. I’m thrilled I was able to go.”

“Good,” he says as we hop into his red Mustang.

I still can’t believe I’m home as we drive out of Toronto. I never knew studying to be a historian would be so fun. When I first made the decision to go to university I had no idea what I wanted to do. I just knew I loved history. I took every course I could that would qualify me to be a historian. I just had no idea what opportunities I would have.

“Your mom will be happy to have you home finally,” Greg says. “She was always calling me to make sure you were OK. I kept trying to explain to her that you were busy, so I didn’t always know if you were. But she kept on calling.”

I laugh. “She knew I was okay, she called me every day!” I reply. “Sometimes I would miss her call and she would leave me a message telling me to make sure I was always with a friend.”

“So tell me about Paris… or just anything.”

“Paris was beautiful. We toured the Louvre and every other museum we could get our hands-on. Brigitte was all over the paintings. She kept asking questions in artist slang about the littlest details. She canceled her flight so she could stay in Paris longer. From there I went to Bermuda. I think it was the most interesting part of the trip.” I'm excited to be able to talk about it.

We get off the hustle and bustle of the highway. The sun is just starting to peek out of the horizon, and pink and purple start to streak across the sky. I’ve always enjoyed being able to experience the softness of the morning. On my trip, I wasn’t able to enjoy it as often as I wished I could have, especially, in Paris where it gave me the sense that I was truly looking at the world through ‘rose-colored glasses’.

I close my eyes imagining all the mornings I woke up to another full day of museum tours and fancy dinner parties with my friends. The road melts away as I try to relive all of those memories.

Suddenly, the car jerks, and I’m pulled back to reality as my heart instantly thumps against my chest. I hear the loud crash and the explosive sound of glass shattering. The airbag pops out in front of me guarding me against harm, and I hear Greg shout something and my own heavy breathing. The car rolls over and I feel my heart skip a few beats as I’m suspended upside down. I try to breathe but

my lungs feel as though they can’t. I hear Greg moaning and finally, the car stops moving. I hear car horns and sirens. I realize I have no idea where we are. The next few minutes go by in a blur and I can’t seem to feel anything. I try to make sense of what I can see around me in the car. My neck hurts to turn it so all I can see is the airbag.

I hear Greg moan and, again, try to see him past the airbag. We are both twisted into odd positions barely able to breathe.

In what feels like only a few minutes we are rescued from the car. I feel like I’m in a daze as I’m pulled, painfully, from the wreckage. The first thing I see is Greg’s limp body laying on a stretcher as a fireman supports my weight. I go weak at the

knees and I suddenly feel sick. The only other thing that registers in my head is a white pick-up truck lodged over the front of Greg’s now ruined Mustang and Greg’s pale eyes staring straight into the sun.

I feel an invisible hand squeeze my throat and, despite the fireman’s support, I keel over, screaming. Tears overflow and stream down my face as the fireman tries to comfort me by rubbing my back. I can still hear sirens over my sobs and

my mind clouds over. The only thing I can think of is Greg and the fact that he’s gone. I puke all over the fireman’s shoe as he tries to coax me back up into a seated position.

My vision goes dark and I feel the fireman lift me as I lose consciousness.

When I wake up I’m in a hospital bed. I feel a soft, motherly hand around mine and my mother’s face appears beside me. “Mom?” I say in a whisper as my throat feels scratchy. I feel another tear slide down my face. “Is he…?” I can’t finish the sentence. I already know, and I don’t really want to hear the answer.

The doctor comes in and explains a few things and says I can go home. My mom has brought me a change of clothes and helps me dress.

She drives me home and I feel nothing but aches and pains. They aren’t just physical, they’re from deep inside of me; from the smallest corners of my heart and soul.

When we pull into the old driveway I don’t see home. I see an empty house. My dad puts his arms around me but I don’t feel them. I feel like I’m walking through molasses as I ascend the staircase and enter my room. I look in the mirror at my tear-stained face, cuts and bruises. Then my eyes land on my desk, covered in a collage of pictures. Faces of friends and family… and Greg.

That night, I dream of nothing but Greg. He comes back. He leaves again. He smiles at me and tells me everything will be alright. I dream of his hugs the same as they used to be. Warm and strong.

School starts again, and I can’t focus. I no longer care about being a historian.

I want Greg back. He was my life, my future. I think of all the times I would show up at his house and he would have pictures of rings open on his computer, and all the times we would talk about how many kids we would have.

It’s been three months. Christmas is approaching and my heart still aches.

I find myself in an old chapel looking at the Nativity Scene and Christmas Trees. Why did you take him from me? Heal my grief, Jesus, please!

For the first time in months, I feel a gentle sense of peace. I close my eyes and I try to focus my mind on what God wants me to do next. How can I move on? Where do I go next? I hear nothing.

But as I leave the beautiful old chapel, a dove flies by and then I know. Jesus is with me. And that is how I will move on.