A turn in the road, and the girl feels her shoulders fall. Like a cat, her eyes go soft, the pupils deepening into a warm maroon that catches the sunlight in swirls of amber. With each curve, her body rocks gently, the lull of the engine and fading sun coaxing her into a state of calm.
Winding Woods.
The sign is worn, cradled by tendrils of gentle ferns and fallen pine needles, but the girl knows its words as well as she knows the sound of her own beating heart. Here, the pines are long and thin, stretching up into the quiet pink sky to point at the heavens. Like the hands of a clock, the shadows beneath the trees rotate by the light of the day, marking the time of sunset. And then, through the thicket, she sees it: the simple cottage, with its smooth glass door and rolling green forest. The car slows to a stop in the driveway, and the girl leaps from it, closing her eyes and tilting her face to the sky, breathing in the cool Carolina air.
It is a place of life, this home. This is where the girl can be free from the woes of her world. Each time she returns, it feels like seeing an old friend, or remembering a lovely song from the past. Firebugs glimmer like stars against the darkened trees, dancing to the music of the night, composed of southern crickets, cicadas, and night owls. A moth flutters past the girl’s face to perch on the twisted dogwood tree, slowly flapping its wings to the rhythm.
A light in the window casts a warm glow, and the garage rattles open to reveal the girl’s second family. She runs to them, holding them tightly, wondering how she would ever find the courage or strength to leave them again. The hounds, one fit and dark, one beautiful and shaggy, leap in anticipation as the girl walks through the back door, her scent causing them both to yip in disbelief, as if to say, “Where have you been?” She laughs and bends to pat their heads, before straightening up to cling to her sister, who squeezes back tightly, long brown hair swept to her shoulder much like the girl’s own.
At the stove, a pan of golden onions, crackling in the heat, sends swirls of hot steam into the air, which curl into ghostly shapes. Music and laughter fills the kitchen, which is warmly lit in shades of custard yellow, ruby red, and verdant evergreen. Gathered around a raised wooden table, the girl’s cousin, brother, mother, and aunt play a spirited card game, laughing boisterously with each round. The tabletop is dressed with a magnificent array of food—onion tarts, fresh baguettes and creamy brie, tangy jars of mustard and sticky fig jam, herbed quiche, whipped and buttered potatoes, roasted lamb—all arranged on gleaming golden platters. On the ground, the dogs, tired from the excitement, lay curled up next to the girl’s other two brothers, snouts rested on the boys’ folded legs, sniffling softly. Soft jazz floats in the background, complimenting the smell of good food and sound of happy chatter. Sipping from a decorated mug of maté, the girl’s Abuelo hums to himself, his wisened mustache curved up in a quiet smile.
Outside, it begins to rain, droplets rolling down the windows in pearls, their tiny splashes echoing with the ring of a dozen silver chimes, tinkling in the floating breeze. The night is a deep blue, and from it, a figure emerges, crossing through the doorway, soaked to the bone. It is the girl’s uncle, who laughs heartily in greeting, raising a bottle of red, a vintage 1982 Bordeaux. The kitchen is alight with tidings of welcome, converging together in a chorus of sound that seems to wash the room in gold. Together with her sister, the girl folds small circles of dough into tiny dumplings, filled with spiced meat, a traditional recipe of her Abuela’s.
“Ven aquí, mi amor,” Abuela calls, gesturing to the girl with outstretched arms, “I’ve missed you.”
Photo Credits: Degleex (unsplash)