I’ve always felt a need to be rooted in a solid house on solid ground. As a too-serious kid, when our family took long summer road trips, I’d grow anxious to be back home if we were gone too long.
On those trips, the closer we got to home, the more concerned I grew because—as everyone knows—Most accidents happen close to home. So if Dad was driving into the night, I’d try to stay awake to make sure we arrived. Silly, right?
As young newlyweds, we moved to Texas for my husband’s job. Only when we arrived and had rented a little duplex could I finally relax. I had roots again.
Now let us leap over years and several more moves and a new marriage. It was when Dad was dying, and I went to be with my mother, that I discovered roots are not always a place—or maybe I mean, roots are not simply a place.
The weeks away from home after Dad’s death dragged. I kept telling myself everything was fine. I was in my childhood home. Mom needed me. The date was set for Dad’s memorial service. After that I could go home.
Wayne called to tell me when his flight would arrive. Some tightness inside that I hadn’t even recognized loosened into tears and gratitude. Wayne was coming!
He was my roots. He was my home.
Kate Harrington 