Reflections on a trip

A call came from my brother.  I almost could not understand him.  His wife of almost 40 years had died.  All their kids would be there, and my sister from Alaska was flying in.  I made plans to finish works in progress and go to Illinois.  I promised him I would be there for the saying of the rosary  on Friday night.  So, Friday morning, I started my journey, both actual and metaphorical.  825 miles.  Seems like a lot of miles to drive, but sometimes the journey back to where I was raised is even further.

Thirteen hours from when I started, I was in Illinois, hugging my niece and nephews, my brother and sister.  Family friends.  Rosary was said and we convened to the old farmhouse to eat.  Much of our lives there were lived around meals, it seems.  Weddings and funerals, holidays and regular days, all reasons to eat good food.  

The grave was opened and closed by her children and their spouses.  From my father to his son's children, we have dug and filled graves.  And this one was no exception, although a sadder task by far.  A funeral with tears and stories, prayers and the scent of flowers.  Then the meal (again), this time made by the women of the local church.  Food for the body and soul.    

Late night drives back to the motel, across the river, my mind as blurry as the pictures I took.  Early morning breakfasts with my sister and her husband.  Not much sleep to be had, and even when I was in my bed, my mind was too busy to sleep.  Listening and talking, sharing histories, sorting memories.  Rebuilding bridges.  Hoping forgiveness was found for all my faults and hurts that I may have caused.  

Then it was time to go again, back to Texas, to my little farm house and home to my husband and children.  Foggy morning, giving way to skittering leaves with the passing vehicles and roadside hawks watching my passage.