Headed North (Found My Words, Act I)

In person, I frequently run out of words; on paper, not so much. This month has been the exception. I honestly have not known what to say, even though there's plenty. Kind of like there is plenty to do, but I hardly do anything. One afternoon I was standing in the four-acre field, staring off at the eastern horizon, my feet buried in the warm, dusty soil that's still abominably stony considering how many hours my siblings and I have spent rock picking. I was thinking about Italy—hence the eastern horizon—and of when I was a little girl, and everything that happened between. Memories upon memories.

Out of the corner of my eye Maryah was hanging laundry—my laundry, actually—on the line to dry. Studying her Spanish terms at the same time, no doubt. 'Cause she's responsible like that, and I'm just not anymore. For some reason, I'm overwrought.

Of course, there's more to the reason than "some." It's because I'm losing it: the soil I grew up in.

I've traded the trees and fields and hills and familiar roads and hiding spots and sleeping under the rafters and stars for an apartment in the middle of town.

They, my family, moved, so I moved with them.

We've talked about moving for years—even seeing the For Sale sign in our yard was not that surprising. What's surprising is that we actually moved this time, and quickly.

It does make a lot of sense. Dad—finally, in this sucky economy that ruined everything for millions of people including my family—has a job here; Isaac has cheaper education opportunities to kick start his medical career; and it makes Mom's dream of living on a lake come true.

Buildings on three sides, lake on the other. Down a few flights of stairs in the apartment building—a renovated utilities plant—a hop across the railroad tracks, and you're in the lake. Not that bad. I adore the lake. I can sit on the unfinished dock and stare at it for hours, or float in it for hours, drown out the noise of the construction crew building the condos right next to us—the condos Dad is going to brand and market to the masses. It's lovely. Our apartment is 800 square feet, brand new, cozy, and gorgeously designed, from the brick accent walls, to the cupboards, to the triangular deck. We girls share the master bedroom, and though it's quite the squeeze and I miss my own room, sleeping in the same bed with Sanna every night is rather comforting, despite the fact that she's a cover-stealer and I'm a terrible offensive sleeper.

I need comforting right now. It's unimaginably hard leaving the lane in Pennsylvania. True, when I went to Italy I didn't miss it. But that's because I knew I was coming back to it. And though when I came back, I knew this area had let go of me, I was still holding onto it, or at least my idea of it. Suddenly, I'm leaving it, having to let go of it, and one day soon there will be no coming back. I actually already tried going back, but spending the weekend all alone in that big, empty post and beam house wasn't worth it.

The memories flood in with such force it knocks the wind out me. Memories like playing hide-and-go-seek in fields of rye or peas, screaming as my brothers chased me. Building forts and fences. Chasing the cows that got out of the fences. Swinging from the big old maple. Catching fireflies underneath the shooting stars. Digging clay out of the swamp and making little pots. Gardening with Grandma and Grandpa. Taking my nap in the cab of the combine during harvesting. Birchtown. Skiing in the pines and sledding down the cherry bowl. Going out into the woods each fall to fill the back of the old Ford with firewood over and over until we had enough to last the winter. Picking wild berries...

It goes on and on; I only stop now because, like this past month, it's too draining to put on paper. It is what is in my heart. It is who I am.

Who I am. I've been learning a lot about that recently.