The Homecoming

Painting of the Westhampton House on Baycrest Avenue

The old place looks the same as the image I’ve kept close to my heart since leaving years ago. Giant maples lining both sides of the street form an archway to the bay. Cloaked in bountiful greens only a few weeks ago, their naked limbs now create a shivering silhouette against the gray Long Island sky.

            Like a patchwork quilt, oranges, yellows, and browns now cover the yard of the two-story dwelling. Beyond the old mint green house toward the inlet, a sea of dry reeds sways in the chilling wind gusting off the Atlantic. Occasional fresh surges of ocean breeze mask ever so briefly the pungent odor of the bay -- a definite sign of low tide.

            Flocks of tourists have already migrated to their winter retreats, leaving behind a conspicuous absence of noise. With the sudden quiet, the soothing rhythm of surf pounding upon the shore has also returned to the bay crest. As daylight ebbs, I pause to let familiar sights, sounds, and smells revitalize my weary soul. Screeching sea gulls sail the brisk sky scouting for a last meal before dark.            

            Thousands of clattering sparrows and blackbirds swarm among the barren trees, gathering before their long journey south. My own journey is about over as I cross the street and make my way toward the front porch. Light from the television dances across the sheer living room curtains. Though I have entered here countless times in years past, the anticipation today triggers a rush of emotion as I take the worn brass doorknob in my hand.

            The sounds of fluttering fowl and the rushing wind through the trees muffle as the door closes behind me. Scents of autumn leaves and salty sea air yield to that of aged wood and eucalyptus. The chill that came in with me suddenly vanishes with the warm embrace of childhood memories.

            Removing my shoes, I feel the ancient oil burner in the basement vibrating the cracked hardwood floor. I stay put a moment while it soothes and massages my tired, aching feet. Ahead, at the end of the darkened hallway, a thin frame of light seeps in around the edges of the warped door. It has a deep spiritual quality to it and rightfully so. It radiates from the very heart of the place – Mom’s kitchen.

            My heart beats faster as I near the entrance to this sacred chamber. A delightful aroma permeates the air, growing stronger with each step - unmistakably Mom’s famous pot roast! My mouth begins to water. I can already taste the savory tender beef smothered in onions, carrots, and potatoes. Only seconds from now, I will touch the loving hands that prepared it, and be wrapped once again in an embrace I have missed for far too long.

            In this moment, I feel like millions of miles separate me from the rest of the world and its many perils. Here, in this place, I am safe from all danger and harm. Here, in this place, I will find peace and rest.

Tonight I sleep at home.

Dried Eucalyptus in a Vase.