Going Back

       Last night I read a little known short story by Mark Twain called The Farm. In the story, Twain describes in explicit detail his Uncle John's farm and some of his childhood experiences visiting the farm during the summer. It wasn't his best story-telling, but his description was so meticulous that I felt as if I was there myself. I thought it would be a great writing exercise to choose a place that I remember, and write a description of it, since writing elaborate detail is one of my shortcomings.
       I decided on my mother-in-law's home in Granville, MA, a place that is most familiar to me. I love the fact that Rose, the Miller matriarch, has kept the house nearly exactly the same over the years. The center chimney salt box house was built in the 1700s, and it is filled with antiques and handmade furniture, folk art, and whimsy. As I began jotting down details of the family home, though, I was suddenly filled with a terrible sense of loss and sadness, even though I have wonderful memories of her house.
       Just a month ago I visited New England, and stopped in to see Rose in Granville, along with my ex-husband, Byard, who has recently moved back to town to be closer to his mother. I have always loved to go back to her house, which to me is kind of like the Catholic church, in that it is always the same, and comforting to me. But this time I was renitent as I walked into a house I had always felt a part of. Certainly there were things in the house that I had given her, as her daughter-in-law; a pair of tiny, hand-stenciled geese, a folksy painting that she claims looks like my sister Laurie, photographs of my children. There are pieces of Shaker doll furniture, hand crafted by her late husband, Hank. Hand hooked and braided rugs that Rose made with scraps of winter coats. Numerous collections of bricabrac, a wooden bowl filled with vintage buttons, and so many other things too numerous to name. All things that had embraced me and made me feel that I was part of the family.
       I was with my husband for 18 years, and although there were many unhappy things that happened that lead to our break up, we are still friends, and can still recount years of happiness with our children, family, and friends. But on this visit, as I sat in the summer room where Rose entertains most of her visitors in the warmer months, the voices of my ex-husband and mother-in-law took on a drone effect. The room and house started spinning, around and around like the passage of time, and I realized that I had somehow been peeled off from that timeline. And everything had changed, almost overnight. So as I smiled and made small talk with the two, I realized I could never be part of what they had, this house, and this life. Because for all the years my husband and I had together, and even more time that we had apart, he was moving home all along. And I was moving away.