A Door to Close

I was fifteen when I left the small southern town which helped to cradle my formative years. Leaving there was a calculated and deliberate action and I pushed blindly ahead not caring how I got out, only knowing that I had to. I’ve gone home many times since then.

Many years ago my return visits began to take on a pattern and last week was no exception. Arriving in town somewhere around dark after my two hour drive from the airport, tired and hungry from the long day of travelling behind me, I checked into my room and poured a glass of wine. I smiled as I sipped the lukewarm Merlot which had travelled thousands of miles with me, successfully passing through several checkpoints and growing ever heavier as the day progressed. Yet another election year had come and gone without providing any relief from the archaic laws here which prohibited the sale of alcohol and I knew I would be arriving in too late to make the obligatory drive across the county line.

After freshening up a bit, I walked out into the heavy southern night and closed my eyes as I allowed the sound of a million cicadas to surround my body and carry me back to other summers, other nights. I climbed into my rental car and began my ritual. Driving slowly I approached the old high school harboring ghosts from long ago pep-rallys and steady couples walking hand-in-hand across the campus as the old Confederate Flag stood watchguard.

From there I made my way down Clinton Street to the old Town Square, the same route I had followed each afternoon after school, always stopping in at the drugstore to hang out with my friends and have a cherry coke before heading home. The drugstore had moved next door to the old bank building, larger now but with much less charm. I circled the square allowing the memories to unfold and, as always, marveling at how small Andrew Jackson looked as he presided over the Courthouse lawn.

I drove on through the square and headed for the other side of town and as I drove by Mother’s house I could see it was already dark with the exception of the bedroom where I could picture her propped up watching the late news. Something tugged at my heart for just a moment – just being outside and looking at her house without her knowledge. I didn’t go to the door though part of me wanted to. Just a few more blocks took me by aunts and uncles, old friends and classmates’ houses – everything pretty much the same as always…just the way I wanted it to be.

Having satisfied myself that the town was in order, I returned to my room feeling as though I were caught up in a time warp. It always seems strange and unreal to be staying in a hotel here in my hometown. Mother has never adjusted to my not staying with her and I suspect that’s as much from the fear of what people might think as from any desire to have me as a constant companion. The south is very big on what people think.

Several years ago I discovered my return visits were much more pleasant this way. I could delve into my past life as much or as little as I wanted because I had this room – this getaway – to come to and recoup. It was the lack of such a retreat, in part, which drove me to flee all those years back.

Going home can be and usually is very traumatic for me. I can tolerate much more now that I have found a sanctuary in the midst of the emotions, demands and expectations brought on by returning to my family and my roots. Now I have a place to go, a quiet corner and a door to close.

I pour myself another glass of wine and dial Mother’s number to let her know I arrived safely and that I’ll see her in the morning.