This morning, I walked across the street to my Grandmommy’s house, bare feet crunching on the dead summer grass, then softening as they warmed on the sun-heated road. I realized that I recognized the whole smell of the day and time, and do every day, because it’s summer and I’ve grown up smelling this street in the summer for 22 years. I think smell is the sense most humbling, because it places us in any moment of time without struggle. Today, smelling the dry grass, and baked dirt, and breeze coming down from the mountain behind me, I was 22 years old going for lunch, and 10 years old going to watch cartoons, and 14 going to play kickball at the park, walking across the street as I always have in summer.
I realized a few months ago that I walk back home from Grandmommy’s house the same way each time. She watches out the front door as I walk down her steps, jog to the curb and check for cars before running across the street and up the grassy rise beside the concrete steps that come up from the road to jump up our steps onto the porch – right foot on the middle stair, left foot up onto the chipped blue boards at the top. The screen door’s spring stretches as I pull it open, keeping it open with my foot as I turn the knob of the main door to walk inside, then turn, wave to let Grandmommy know I’ve made it again, safe. She already knows, but she’ll watch me the whole way to make sure every time. When I was little, her farewell warning “I’ll stand out here and watch you across the street to make sure no boogers get you” (“boogers” being anything scary and bad) made me run faster, barely pausing to stop to look both ways before lightfooting it across the street and up into the safety of our porch light. She says the same thing still. I think that fear of ‘boogers’ is what keeps me running the route each time, even now. The warning scared me enough to run, scared me enough to be careful. It scared me enough to feel loved.
That’s what I think about whenever I miss home: that crossing, the smell of it in every season. It’s what keeps me coming back – so I can do it over and over again – but it’s also what keeps me okay when I’m away. Each day is just another crossing of that dark street, but I make it, because there will always be a warm light and someone I love on each side.
Fecking Chinwag 