Sunrise over the water

Writing about unpleasant situations is, well, unpleasant, but life is full of unpleasant situations and it’s important we stay authentic and honest with not just others, but ourselves as well.

The warmth from the sun reminded me I’d worn the wrong shirt for the weather. The air was cool when I quietly left the house very early this morning in the pre-dawn darkness. Dense fog the color of skim milk was hovering over the ground, muffling all sound.

For many years – most of my adult life – I was terrified of driving in fog. I think it’s because it always made me remember an episode from “The Twilight Zone” my mom used to watch. The show came on after I was in bed, but this particular night I had been sick, so mom let me stay up with her. Bad idea. Scary things give me nightmares.

But I finally grew up and now the fog doesn’t scare me. It just makes me more cautious and introspective.

Every Saturday my route is the same. Each turn and curve of the road is etched in my memory. My spirit looks forward to experiencing the beauty of the sunrise over the water of the Choctawhatchee Bay as I cross the bridge. This is the highlight of my drive. The pastels in the birthing sky are like a watercolor painting in blues and pinks and oranges all seeping together with the colored edges blurring into each other, and the water, sparkling and silvery in the wee hours, a softly rippled mirror.

Peace and serenity and calm. I breathe deeply as I drive into the painting as picturesque as a postcard from paradise, absorbing the sense of the place, letting it snuggle down into my psyche for the day.

Gently undulating back roads and countryside will forever be my favorite way to get from here to there if it’s possible.   The curving road, flanked by a pine tree forest lanky with age, follows me for miles as a welcome companion. At random places the fog softly stretches out from the dense cover of the trees, reaching across the road, dissipating into the foliage on the other side. Cotton fields soon appear filling the flat farm land, maturing just a little more each week until they’re harvested, leaving fluffy handfuls of cotton bolls scrunched up against the sides of the road that look a bit like snow.

I couldn’t help myself, and one day I pulled off on the side, got out of my car and filled my arms with some abandoned cotton leavings. They are soft and white, and I gently pull the fiber out and spin it in my fingers to make thread.

For me, Saturdays are Jeremy days. I have no other plans. I desire no other plans.

It’s a long drive each way, and when I arrive back home in late afternoon, I like to decompress.

The going toward and the leaving behind. Every Saturday.

Bittersweet and heart-wrenching. While I’m there, we fill the day with words of encouragement and banter and play card games. He makes his own special recipe of biscuits and gravy we enjoy together using the meager ingredients available. No shopping or movie watching. Just sitting in hard chairs, laughing across a long table, sharing the room with many others doing the same.

Sometimes we even get to go outside. But not often. We do what we can with what we have.

It’s all these things. And it’s all worth it.

But we both long for the day when there will be no more leaving behind.

Because home is where my son will be.