There

 Here                      

The death of Fred's father arrived mostly as relief, an end of suffering, so that the fact of loss and the accompanying sadness didn't settle in until later. The mass of volcanic rock and the endless crash of ocean wave were unchanged, but the island felt altered as we left it.  Missing was a father and a whole future of possibilities between father and son.

The wings of our 767 promised lift: out of the torrential downpour of Hawaii's raining season (as dense as grief itself), away from hospital smells and shallow breaths, past the slow withering of life toward being alive.  We soaked in Phoenix's sun rays, talked loudly, laughed strongly, then began to get our bearings. 

Since we gave up permanent residence, it has been hard to keep tabs on the conventional calendar, or, probably more accurate, its been easy to let time go. Even more so in Hawaii with its six hour time difference and remote, isolated location.  So it was surprising to realize that we were days away from Thanksgiving, still in the states, smack in the middle of winter, that season we thought we'd done away with in June, along with our household goods and cold weather clothes.  Only summer things made the crate in preparation for Central American living.  But, the whole idea was to go with the flow, embrace opportunities that naturally arise, do what feels right, right?

How about seeing mom?  How about a big, old-fashioned, family Thanksgiving?  How about shocking our systems by leaving 80 degree Phoenix, hauling ass through night, day, and night again, to arrive in frigid Minneapolis wearing sweatshirts as coats and flip-flops with socks? 

The sweet-faced Texas State Trooper with a slow drawl believed us.  He pulled us over to check on our expired registration (another casualty of the time warp).  We figure that little section of Interstate 40 across the top of Texas is a popular drug route, and on first glance, we sure fit the profile: old, out of state tags, a backseat full of boxes, and a sleeping passenger.  In retrospect, our story wasn't much better.  "You see officer, we've been travelling.  We're on our way to Minneapolis from Phoenix via Texas (how we choose that route is another story)." 

"You've been on the road for over a month?"  The officer notes our expiration date.  "Whatcha you'all do for work?"

Now doesn't seem the time to try to explain Untourism.  Fred leans across, still sleepy from my rude awakening, "Fred, wake up, we're getting pulled over."  "Well, you see, my Dad was sick so we've been in Hawaii."  Now we've just added a faraway island to the mix, and a sick relative...haven't I seen this on a late night re-run of Cops?

But, the officer doesn't scrutinize.  He starts talking to us about Hawaii's climate, complaining about the cold Texas wind.  I reason we've already been dropped off his "fits a profile" list by the simple fact that when he asked us for license and registration I was able to quickly retrieve an organized packet, a neat plastic case sporting an insurance company logo from an uncluttered glove box.  He just issues us, as he puts it, "A friendly Texan warning."

As long as we stay inside, our time in Minneapolis is like a healing heat pad.  We get to spend time with Fred's mom, a much needed dose of parent after his father's death.  His sister lives in town as well, and we even get more Michael B. since he is hanging out on-call for his airline.  We eat scrumptious meals (in addition to Christine's magnificent holiday feast), bask in the heated pool, give our bodies some much needed exercise, and play rousing games of scrabble in between heart-to-heart conversations.   

We climb into the car on a Sunday evening, very aware that, for us, home has become wherever it is we happen to be, even if that place is the inside of our trusty Toyota.  We pull onto the freeway, feel that familiar open-road exhilaration, and agree that we both crave one thing: solitude.  It's been a long, emotional stretch of weeks that tested our generosity and our capacity to extend ourselves to meet others needs.  We haven't shied away from tough decisions, difficult conversations, and we refused to pull away from each other though it certainly seemed that might be easier at times.  We've earned a controlled environment, a chance to adjust every single thing--the temperature, the volume, the flavor--to our liking and ours alone, consult with no one and relax into the comfort of our own selves.  We splurge.  After our all-night drive and an early morning emissions test (also expired), we cross the Ohio border and secure not one, but two hotel rooms.  I go my way.  Fred goes his.  We agree to meet again in 24 hours: refreshed, rejuvenated and ready for farm sweet farm. 

And we are rewarded.  The next day, sunshine breaks through the mid-western grey.  It lights our way to my father's golden-grassed fields, to fresh earth paths along which our afternoon walk is like a cure.