Fly Away Home by - (best ereader for comics txt) 📖

I used it as a social barometer for how difficult the expedition might be for me. Being pushed outside my comfort zone is something I’ve never willingly embraced. Hank, always the insightful one, sensed my anxiety. He provided just the encouragement I needed.

His wife pulled Lizzie aside to help pick out different fruit that would be the subject of her next watercolor creation. We came away with even more peaches. The deeper skin textures would provide her a fresh challenge, Lydia said. I’ve contemplated Lizzie’s paintings more closely with each new one she creates, becoming lost in my thoughts while doing so. It’s as if her artistic gift has helped me get to where I am today.

The visit to Caldwell’s Coffee supplied us both with a jolt of caffeine. Lizzie seemed to enjoy the fully caffeinated beverage I promised her. But she reminded me it still fell short of the stimulating effects from our experience with Jack. My need for espresso appears to be waning too, replaced by an increased desire to be around others.

Looking down at my mug of cooling coffee, I see I have yet to take a sip, proving my point. Small touches in the kitchen have begun to fill the empty space with a sense of warmth and belonging. Decorative towels drape over the sink. A ceramic bowl gathers my selection of fruit into a cohesive collection. Place mats with cloth tassels adorn the table. They’re all handmade and come from other folks in town.

How can I give back to the community? What could I offer that others would need or want?

It’s as if the universe has received my thoughts and offers an idea. Or at least the glint of one. A snapshot in time greets me, like a single frame from a movie. I see people, lots of them, seated around a large dining room table. Cloth doilies rest beneath eclectic china patterns and mismatched flatware.

It mirrors that initial vision of my garden, chaotic . . . and beautiful.

Before I can latch onto the full expanse of what I’m seeing, my attention focuses on a different latch. The side door is unlocked. Have I been that careless to have forgotten about it last night? It’s one thing to be comfortable in a neighborhood and quite another to be irresponsible. As I get up to lock it, chastising myself, I see movement on the porch. Lizzie sits outside on the same rocking chair, a sketchbook in her hands.

“Hey, kiddo. Good morning. I thought you were still asleep. What are you up to?”

“I’ve been up a while. Just painting some.” There’s an uneasiness that leaks through her voice as she gazes out over the garden. The open page in her lap reveals a beautiful depiction of the bridge we visited several days ago. Her memory is impeccable to capture that much detail from a single visit.

“Would you like some breakfast? I can whip us up some pancakes.”

“No, thanks. I had some fruit earlier.” There’s a quiet struggle nestled between her words, as if she needs some encouragement.

“I’ll add blueberries.” It does the trick as Lizzie smiles wide.

“We’re running low. I’ll run into town later and get some more.”

I appreciate her offer, but she’s supposed to be on vacation. “You don’t need to. I can get them too.”

“No, I like going. And Mrs. Charles always helps me pick out the best fruit for painting.” I find it odd that I haven’t seen a single image of said produce in her sketchbook over the past several days. Only the bridge.

Lizzie inhales a stack of pancakes topped with fresh blueberries, then darts upstairs. She returns with the cloth bag we’ve been using for carrying our purchased fruit. Why it was upstairs, I have no idea. “Be back soon.” She pecks me on the cheek and rushes out the front door as if Hank and Lydia will close shop before she arrives.

After cleaning the kitchen, I’m drawn to my favorite outdoor spot. I sit on the side porch, glancing out over the garden. More birds have discovered it, but I still reserve a special place in my heart for that first chickadee. It’s only been a few days, but it feels as though this space has matured and grown. In ways that having nothing to do with water and sunlight.

Where do all these avian friends come from, and where do they disappear to at night? Do they have a home, or are they content to move from one place to another? In search of whatever might fulfill them in the moment?

I glance toward the sidewalk, hoping to see Jack. I must have imagined the connection between us. It’s a blessing and a curse of mine, seeing things that don’t exist. Sometimes it creates pure bliss, and at other times, unbearable agony. I was silly to entertain the thought of something beyond a casual friendship with him. Even if I never voiced that desire to myself, I knew it was there, imploring me to acknowledge it.

I’ve connected with many people in town, but none of them understand me with the same depth and intensity. Without ever needing to share a single word. Or so I thought that was the case with Jack.

It’s at least an hour later when the front screen door opens with a slow creak. “Lizzie? I’m out here.”

“Be out in a sec. Just emptying the bag.” Her words tumble out with nervous anxiety. I remember what it was like to be a teenager, even if she’s not going through the same things I had to endure at her age. Something is on her mind.

She arrives on the side porch, standing with attention as if waiting for me to speak. I tilt my head and tread with caution. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Her response, quick and forced, catches somewhere between discomfort and guilt.

“How are Hank and Lydia?”

“They’re good, said to say hi.” She bites the inside of her lip. “So, hi. From them.”

“You know, I was in your shoes once. Talk to me.” Lizzie’s shoulders release with resignation. I was never great at opening up either. I have an idea. “Do you want to help me add some plants to the garden?”

“Sure, okay.”

We’re removing the top layer of soil, clearing the new space in silence, when Lizzie suddenly asks, “Do you ever miss your mom?” A question emerging from a teenager’s mouth has never surprised me more. She doesn’t know much about my situation, only that there were undisclosed issues.

“Yes.” The word feels impossibly difficult to force from my lungs. It’s not the truth, really. I miss the idea of having a mom, but not the one assigned to me. Although those thoughts shared by Russell rattle inside my memory. There was a time . . . when it wasn’t so bad. “How about you?”

She slides the dirt around, as if trying to find a weed, or a seed, hidden in the cool soil. “I want to miss her, if that makes any sense. But I feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t care about someone who left me and my dad.”

“Oh, sweetheart.” I stop and place my dirty hand on her cheek. Sadness and guilt hide behind her brave facade. Gosh, I know how it feels. Hiding emotions that plead for release from the stranglehold put on them.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.” She’s not, and I can tell Lizzie’s trying her best to be strong.

“It’s always okay to feel what’s inside, even if those feelings clash with what others think.”

“I miss her.” It comes out as a whisper, still uncertain whether she should share her words aloud.

“Come here, sweetheart.” I sit down beside her and cradle Lizzie in my arms. She’s a tiny seed, already blooming, but doing her best to reach in new directions. Trying to find her way toward the sunlight. I run my palm over her hair with gentle and comforting strokes. “The past is tough to handle sometimes. It’s a piece of our path that has led us to where we are today.” She nods knowingly. “It’s important to recognize how far it’s allowed us to come. But it’s also there as encouragement to keep moving forward.”

The irony is not lost on me, how guidance given to another ends up being the best advice for ourselves. I ponder thoughts of Dillon, my mom, and Jack. Although it’s sometimes confusing and difficult to untangle, they’re all interconnected.

“Thanks, Aunt Claire. I love you.” Her words are stronger and more certain.

“I love you too, Lizzie.” I pause, allowing her to absorb the emotion in my words. “The foundation of every relationship, even with yourself, is trust. Talk to your dad. He’ll understand.” I know he will.

I release her from my embrace and give her space to breathe in the life surrounding her. We put our hands back into the dirt together. I allow my fingers to run through the deep, cool soil alongside Lizzie’s. There’s a connectedness with the past that, once painful, is now cathartic. Removing that top layer of soil allows me to dig deeper and make room to lay new roots. I hope it does the same for the young and beautiful flower blooming beside me.

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