CREATIVE NONFICTION
JAMIE ETHERIDGE
PANGAEA REUNITED
The road leading to my mother’s house is pock marked and bumpy, derelict and beautiful in the way only roads in small southern towns can be.
We barrel along, avoiding craters and random squirrels that kamikaze across the highway. A fulgent sun brightens the forest. On either side of the road, copses of willow oak, silver maple and pine trees do battle with the disheveled undergrowth. Everywhere kudzu thrives, wild and suffocating.
I once felt similarly stifled. The southern way of life.
Today I return carrying a suitcase full of souvenirs and the babies I’ve had along the way.
The flight takes 22 hours – four countries, three planes and two long layovers. I make the trek once every few years, each trip stretching me out like a much-worn knitted sweater that’s lost its shape. My children chatter in the backseat, exhausted and excited in equal parts.
My mother stops the car on the side of the road when I ask and I step out, breathe in the fresh clean scent of the pines, the earthy perfume of wet leaves and afternoon rain. I lean closer to the stand of trees, inhale the scent of my youth, then climb back into the car.
Each time I arrive, I bring leaving along with me. In my journal, the return date is marked and, in my inbox, the e-ticket awaits. The countdown has begun before I step off the plane.
I stare out the window, smiling quietly as Momma rattles off the latest news about each of my siblings. This one got a new job. That one is moving. Another one is doing just ok. My younger sister will be home in the afternoon, bringing the girls and maybe the dog. Michael will arrive on the weekend and Janet by early next week.
“Sounds good to me,” I murmur as I watch the scenery.
Whipsawed by the trees and the lilt of my mother’s southern accent, I close my eyes and see us as we used to be: seven siblings, always fighting, always laughing. On holidays we’d gather at the dining table, eat and tell stories, passing around our collective memories along with the turkey, cornbread and green beans.
One time my brother fell into the Gulf waters during a summer spent on Dauphin Island. We were all on the pier, fishing, when we heard his frantic shouts, “Help! Help! I’m drowning!” Our father wandered over to the railing, looked down then called out: “Stand up, son.”
When my brother stood up, the water came only to his knees.
This tale always incites hilarity. One of many family stories, told like an amaranthine ritual each time we reconvene.
The teasing is as much a part of who we are as our southern fried speech. It comes from lives intermingled; foibles and adventures shared, communal escapades. Teasing and tales are the road back to our childhood camaraderie.
I miss that easy intimacy. Time has shrunk us into our separate parts. Discrete, independent. Single home families.
Oceans of difference divide us.
Still we return every few years. Drive the road with its undulating hills, thick forests of pines interspersed with middle class suburbs and pot holes the size of Big Creek Lake. Then we are like Pangaea reunited, if only temporarily.
“Do you need anything?” Momma asks as we roll through a green light and pass a convenience store.
“I’m good. Just tired.” Which is true. The only thing I want is a shower and to lay flat on a bed in my mother’s house and never move again. I want to smell the linseed oil on the hardwood floors in the hallway, to drink coffee in the kitchen with my brothers and sisters and listen to the sounds of home, not-home while my daughters sleep.
We barrel along, avoiding craters and random squirrels that kamikaze across the highway. A fulgent sun brightens the forest. On either side of the road, copses of willow oak, silver maple and pine trees do battle with the disheveled undergrowth. Everywhere kudzu thrives, wild and suffocating.
I once felt similarly stifled. The southern way of life.
Today I return carrying a suitcase full of souvenirs and the babies I’ve had along the way.
The flight takes 22 hours – four countries, three planes and two long layovers. I make the trek once every few years, each trip stretching me out like a much-worn knitted sweater that’s lost its shape. My children chatter in the backseat, exhausted and excited in equal parts.
My mother stops the car on the side of the road when I ask and I step out, breathe in the fresh clean scent of the pines, the earthy perfume of wet leaves and afternoon rain. I lean closer to the stand of trees, inhale the scent of my youth, then climb back into the car.
Each time I arrive, I bring leaving along with me. In my journal, the return date is marked and, in my inbox, the e-ticket awaits. The countdown has begun before I step off the plane.
I stare out the window, smiling quietly as Momma rattles off the latest news about each of my siblings. This one got a new job. That one is moving. Another one is doing just ok. My younger sister will be home in the afternoon, bringing the girls and maybe the dog. Michael will arrive on the weekend and Janet by early next week.
“Sounds good to me,” I murmur as I watch the scenery.
Whipsawed by the trees and the lilt of my mother’s southern accent, I close my eyes and see us as we used to be: seven siblings, always fighting, always laughing. On holidays we’d gather at the dining table, eat and tell stories, passing around our collective memories along with the turkey, cornbread and green beans.
One time my brother fell into the Gulf waters during a summer spent on Dauphin Island. We were all on the pier, fishing, when we heard his frantic shouts, “Help! Help! I’m drowning!” Our father wandered over to the railing, looked down then called out: “Stand up, son.”
When my brother stood up, the water came only to his knees.
This tale always incites hilarity. One of many family stories, told like an amaranthine ritual each time we reconvene.
The teasing is as much a part of who we are as our southern fried speech. It comes from lives intermingled; foibles and adventures shared, communal escapades. Teasing and tales are the road back to our childhood camaraderie.
I miss that easy intimacy. Time has shrunk us into our separate parts. Discrete, independent. Single home families.
Oceans of difference divide us.
Still we return every few years. Drive the road with its undulating hills, thick forests of pines interspersed with middle class suburbs and pot holes the size of Big Creek Lake. Then we are like Pangaea reunited, if only temporarily.
“Do you need anything?” Momma asks as we roll through a green light and pass a convenience store.
“I’m good. Just tired.” Which is true. The only thing I want is a shower and to lay flat on a bed in my mother’s house and never move again. I want to smell the linseed oil on the hardwood floors in the hallway, to drink coffee in the kitchen with my brothers and sisters and listen to the sounds of home, not-home while my daughters sleep.
Jamie Etheridge's work has been published or is forthcoming in Burnt Breakfast, XRAY Lit, Eastern Iowa Review, Every Day Fiction, Inkwell Journal, Potomac Journal and Wild Word magazine. You can read more of her work at LeScribbler.com and she can be found on Twitter at @Lescribbler. "