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

I GATHER SOME ESSENTIALS from the grocery store: food and a few cleaning supplies. I work through the downstairs first, one room at a time. It’s cathartic to clear away layers of dust and discover a hint of the sparkle hidden beneath each surface. The kitchen is my favorite and where I begin. It breathes life into me. There is space to move around, but it still feels intimate and private. This is a place where new things are born from simple ingredients. Like sugar, butter, flour, and perhaps a small dash of hope.

The single window over the cavernous porcelain sink gets stuck when I try to open it. A little perseverance proves successful as the familiar scent of jasmine floats inside. I almost don’t notice the unsightly field of overgrown weeds next door.

In due time, I’ll find out who owns that property. It shouldn’t be difficult to have it cleared. My practical mind taps me on the shoulder. Claire? Hello, there. Consider this your wake-up call. You don’t have that much money or a job to sustain your long-term presence here.

I’ll worry about that later. I lean against the counter, close my eyes, inhale, and appreciate the sanctity of my quiet refuge.

Knock, knock.

The jarring sound travels through the living room. It pushes that comfortable and intoxicating floral scent back outside the window. So much for peaceful silence. If I ignore whoever it is, maybe they’ll give up and leave.

Knock, knock, knock, now delivered with more insistence. I forgot that my car parked along the curb gives me away. I tiptoe through the hallway, wondering if I can catch a glimpse of my uninvited visitor before he or she sees me.

She’s holding a covered basket. Looking back over her shoulder, she mutters something about behaving. Please don’t let her have a dog. I’m trying to get rid of the mess, not add to it. I move to stand before my screen door, still and silent, and wait for her to notice me.

“Oh goodness!” She almost drops what she’s carrying. “Sorry, I didn’t see you there. You snuck up on me. My name is Lydia. And this . . .” She turns around revealing someone less furry than a dog, but only barely. The mat of unruly hair hiding beneath the man’s hat could use a comb through it.

“Hickory trees have strong roots. Keeps that surly wind from blowing them over. Fine craftsmanship here, don’t you think?” He’s running his hand over the smooth railing leading up to my front porch.

“Yes, it’s exquisite. Now come up here and meet our new neighbor.” That last word causes a chill to travel up my spine. I didn’t move here to become neighborly. She turns back to me. “Meet my husband, Hank. Welcome to Pigeon Grove.” Her smile is warm, even if there’s a hint of embarrassment for the gentleman now standing beside her. He holds his floppy hat respectfully in both hands.

I stare at the two of them for a moment. I mustn’t be rude. It’s not in my nature. I swing the door open and step into the doorway at the same time Lydia begins to make her way inside. “Sorry, dear. Old habits and all.” She shuffles backwards and allows me space to make my way onto the porch.

“I’m Claire.” I reach out my hand as if greeting a new business client, keeping a full arm’s length between us. Now what? My eyes flit around. I notice cracks in the wood planks that make up the front porch. More work to do. Small flecks of white paint from the flaking house accumulate like snow that rarely falls here.

I finally glance toward the couple. They seem to have forgotten about me, preoccupied by the wooden swing beside me. Suspended by two new metal chains, they don’t match the worn appearance of everything around it.

“Would you like to have a seat?” It’s better than inviting them inside.

“Thank you, that would be lovely.” Lydia smiles as Hank secures her hand, allowing his wife to take a seat first. I never tire of gentle mannerisms. They’re like soft pillows for the soul to rest upon. The couple swings with softness back and forth. It’s like they’ve received an unexpected gift.

“It seems like you’ve done this a few times before.” There’s a natural cadence to their routine. I settle on the small table that doubles as an extra chair.

“Indeed. Every day for the last eighteen months.” Lydia’s smile grows wider as she presses her shoulder against Hank’s.

“Until the last several weeks.” Hank adds the factual note to Lydia’s dreamy reminiscence. Did she just elbow him in the side? “But it was our pleasure, of course.”

“Excuse me?” This is one of the many reasons being neighborly isn’t on my short list of things to do. I have no idea where this conversation has come from, nor where it’s headed.

“Oh dear. My manners. I thought you knew.” My confusion must be evident. “This was our home before putting it up for sale a few years ago. We never wanted to move, but business grew faster than expected. It’s why we purchased the larger lot outside of town.”

Sitting upright but relaxed, Hank peeks inside the basket on Lydia’s lap. “It’s ironic we live in the Peach State. More than 50 percent of all peaches in the United States come from California, not Georgia.” He’s full of interesting information, like the studious girl I used to be in grade school. “Still makes for a good life here, though.” A smile sneaks across his lips. Someone else might think it’s from fond memories of financial success, but I know better. Especially since his hand has now found Lydia’s as they sway in tune to a silent song known by them alone.

His tender touch creates a radiant glow in Lydia’s cheeks and a soft nostalgia in her voice. “We’d sit here for hours, sipping our shared glass of sweet tea while watching the sun dip below the horizon.” Their loving relationship is infectious. I can’t help but allow myself to slip into the past, to a time and place where love once lived, albeit briefly.

I have shared but a few cursory words since my guests arrived. So much for not being rude. My mind plays tricks on me. Although I am charmed by their cozy love, the smile involuntarily playing across my lips fades. I came here to forget these memories. To start anew, not stir up confusing emotions that I can no longer do anything about. The blissful couple seems to read my body language like an open book.

“Hank, we need to stop by the bank on the way home, before it closes.”

“I did that . . .” She provides a subtle squeeze to his hand. “Right, we need to make that deposit. Best be going.”

“These are for you, Claire. A welcome gift from Hank and me.” Lydia hands me the basket as we all rise to our feet in unison.

“Did you know scientists label peaches as the fruit of calmness? They’re known to reduce anxiety and are a symbol of good luck, protection, and longevity in China.” Hank begins making his way back down the porch steps, studying the vacant flower box beside it.

I’m taken aback as Lydia pats my arm and whispers in my ear. “Don’t tell him I said this, but there’s no reason to limit those good-luck charms to a single country, don’t you think?”

Hank replaces the hat on his head, doing his best to tuck loose strands beneath it. “This soil is some of the most fertile in the area.” Guilt crawls across my skin as I notice crumbling soil in the planter I didn’t even realize was there. I’ve taken ownership of a house that has known so much love but haven’t been able to resuscitate it to its prior glory. I have only been here for a few weeks, but I still feel like a failure.

“I apologize for letting things lapse. I’ve been focusing on everything inside first. I’ll do my best to bring this place back to the beautiful place it once was.”

“Oh, that’s not what he means, dear. He’s talking about that overgrown mess over there.” She motions to the field of weeds. “That used to be a finely tilled arrangement of plentiful crops. After we ran out of space, that’s when we moved. All that land over there is yours as well.” I’m not sure I appreciate the responsibility for maintaining that mess. “I guess it shows how quickly weeds can overtake a garden when not tended to with care.” Lydia’s comment strikes a disquieting chord somewhere deep inside me.

She rests her fingertips on my forearm, bringing me back to the present. “We apologize for staying so long, Claire. We only wanted to stop in for a quick visit and welcome you to Pigeon Grove.”

“Interesting thing about pigeons . . .”

“Hank, we should be going.”

“No, that’s okay. I like learning new things. Your husband has been quite successful at helping me do so over the past thirty minutes.” I smile, appreciating someone who has the same desire for knowledge as me.

“See, she’s a smart one, just like you.” Hank takes his wife’s hand and continues. “Pigeons are private birds. The chicks don’t reveal themselves to humans until they’re fully mature. And they have an innate ability to find their way home, no matter how hard people try to confuse them.”

“And speaking of home,” Lydia chimes, “that’s exactly where we should be heading.”

“After the bank, though.” Hank winks at Lydia, their secret code not slipping past my perceptive gaze.

As the couple strolls down the sidewalk together, I’m not sure what I’m feeling. I find this charming couple endearing, but there’s still a big part of me that wants to pull back, inside the house and inside myself. I’m caught in a state of confusion, just like those pigeons. But it’s clear I’m not destined to find my way back home.

A thought slips in through one of these secret back doors that life tries to hide from us. Maybe I’m still only a chick, waiting to become a proper grown bird ready to fly. Hard as I try, it’s impossible to relinquish that sliver of hope, however tiny it might be.

5

It might be some weird synchronicity that exists between owners of the same house, but I somehow doubt it. I’m halfway through my glass of lemonade when they stroll down the sidewalk together. At the same time each day. Lydia is always on the inside while Hank embraces his role as the chivalrous knight. He serves as a human shield against wayward splashes from puddles in the street.

“Good afternoon, Claire.” I hear Lydia’s greeting and recognize the implied question hiding behind it: How are you? I suppose it’s a natural byproduct of small-town life. Everyone knows everything. Or wants to, at least. She waves with one hand while the other remains interlocked with her partner’s.

“Hi, Lydia. Beautiful weather for a walk, isn’t it?”

“With a companion like this, every opportunity is a perfect one.” She wraps her fingers around Hank’s arm and squeezes with tenderness. He smiles and tips his hat toward me.

Each