I recently visited my friend at her mother's home in our hometown. It was a great get away of two days and nights. We reminisced of our past and shed a few tears over our families losses, and played a dice game that I won on the first round.
It was late afternoon on the day before we would part ways. My friend took me to the spot where their old home used to be. It had burned five years ago, and my friend's mother barely got out in time. I stood on that cleaned site, not a charcoal lump anywhere.
My childhood tumbled over me in a rush of emotion. Happy times on that property whirled like a dusty wind. Their home was at one time a safe haven for me as a teen. So the loss of its structure overwhelmed. My friend became sad to see me cry, so I wiped off the tears and turned my attention to the old scraggly apple trees.
My friend reminded me of all the apples we picked and pies we helped her mom make. I had forgotten, and stood there not remembering. What I remembered was the love her mom showed to me. The way she reigned me in as one of her children with hugs, scoldings, and chores. I shared in their laughter, a family of six children, with me number seven on the weekends.
This is also true of characters in novels. The plot is not what we recall best, but the people that we've spent time with during the world the author places us into the middle of. My friend's mom made the biggest impression on me during a tumultuous time in my life. I shall never forget.
After we left the old home site, we continued on our walk and came across an Alpaca farm. I had brought my camera and got a few shots of the animals. My favorite one is of a nursing mama I call Dolly. She captivated me with her genteel look and her curiosity of us humans at her fence.
I wanted to honor her with the above photo from a lighthearted moment I experienced at the end of the day.
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