Month Eleven

Being here, at my mother’s house, reminds me of making bottles late at night, fumbling my way in an unfamiliar kitchen.

The Babyman has been here only twice before: In October we spent three weeks here, before his baptism, and again at Christmas, for just three harried days. The last time we were here, he was just four months old.

Yesterday, as we spend down the New York State Thruway, we listened to The Beatles on our iPod.

Two of us riding nowhere
Spending someone’s
Hard earned pay
You and me Sunday driving
Not arriving
On our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home

My eyes filled with tears. No matter how fond I’ve become of Chambana and my life there, my heart will always be rooted in the terra firma of my hometown. I was wed here, buried my father here, bore The Poo here, christened both of my children here. My mother and my sister are here.

I grew up here, this is my home.

When we arrived, The Poo scrambled down from her booster seat and ran into the house shouting her grandmother’s name. The Babyman, woken from a hard-won nap, rubbed his eyes and looked around for just a moment.

Then he titled forward on the axis of my forearm, eager to explore the house. He seemed perfectly at home here.

I carried him into the kitchen after he tried to go up the un-gated stairs, and as I held him he reached out, grabbed a plump tomato from the counter, and took a big bite. Juice ran down his face as he slurped up the tender skin, all of us laughing as he ate.

I put him in his booster seat at the table, and he pointed at a shallow bowl of peaches. I handed him one, and he proceeded to eat the whole thing, all the while murmuring: Mmmmmm, good!

Those eleven months, some of which seemed like an eternity as we struggled through them, passed before my very eyes as I watched my baby eat.

It’s so good to be home.