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By Thoughtfull Date: 2005 Apr 04 Comment on this Work [[2005.04.04.23.35.29450]] |
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I am spending Easter Sunday in a far away land (Florida). After one month in this experiment of cohabitation, I suppose I should call myself a Floridian. A waiter asks if we are locals, however, and I shake my head vehemently. "He is. Oh- I guess I am too. Now..." But I can't shake the scent of mountain air from my memory. Hills are home. And Easter Sunday dinner should be at my 'Nana's.' Instead, I am cooking dinner in our brand new apartment while your parents visit thinking- shouldn't this define 'home'? I feel so stereotypically domestic as I chop vegetables and sprinkle spices on a family recipe I pray I have perfected. (I never cooked this before- hell I have never really cooked before.) But in the time it takes me to prepare your (our?) family meal, conflicting thoughts course through my brain. Streams of memories, tradition such a strong bind. When we were younger, my cousins and I would steal one of my Grandmother's chocolate pies right out from under her nose (aided and abetted by my Papaw). We would savor the sweetness of the spoils, tingling with the deliciousness of the secret and the sugar. Part of me longs to feel those giggles rising up right now. I miss being the child who felt that sneaking pastery is a terrible delight. I miss the warm hugs full of certainty and the solid silent ties between myself and my grandfather. We must hug a dozen times any time I am around him. I miss that today. But I feel a rush of affection, remembering your suggestion that this was our chance to start our own traditions. We hid our first Easter baskets this morning in the small two bedroom mess that we have not even begun to unpack. I love the way you came in sweaty from a day of carrying boxes and checked on the meal I am preparing. And stolen kisses and shared glances while your mother goes on a bit tipsily during 'cocktail hour.' I know we will forever remember falling exhausted together on the couch after they left, laughing. I know, despite the thickness and depth of my feelings toward my native West Virginia hills, home has become here, and beside you. So I will cook for you. Feed you warm soft rolls and rich delicious sauces. I will bake pies and hide Easter baskets and make the bed each morning. I will grow memories here in this new fertile soil. Smile into the sunshine until my very soul radiates the warmth of knowing where my home is. Florida now. Beside you forever. |