Returning Home

Storms hit the morning we fly out of Oakland. Before dawn we swim through traffic, the highway on-ramp almost flooded over. Steady pace, there's enough room so I place my hand on his back while he stares into a pelting blur. From the back seat, small soprano whispers, "Three wittle ducks went out one day, only two wittle ducks came back."

From the off-site car return to the curbside check-in, we're wet, head to toe. Hanging strands of hair drip onto her shoulders as she peels off her coat, reaches to throw it into the tub, sits to unstrap shoes. She uses all her weight to push baskets along the security belt. Big girl.

Over snow covered mountain ranges, rivers crawl across green, clouds descend to mist, and we finally land in Portland. Finally. On the other side of a new year, just, we know we're tender, too, as we drive to the new house. Steve leaves as soon as we pull in for a school retreat.

Opening the door, a wave of toxic air. One foot in and I see a blanket of white dust across the floor. Without stepping further, I lift my gaze, white dust across every furniture surface I can see. River's shoes already white, hands white, and I notice that across the house, our long dining room table is a blanket of white. It's a page and I want to begin writing but I head for River's room instead. Placing my hand on her bookcase, dresser, bedside table, I wipe and don't want to look. Thick white dust. Sheet rock dust. Everywhere.

Work downstairs to finish the basement room. They say later that there was only one piece of plastic so they covered the computer. I tell River not to move and go down the steps. Desks, computers, couch, bookshelf, rugs - a white mess.

It takes two hours for me to stop shaking, to stop the disbelief and confusion, to get moving again. The suitcases still outside on the front stoop, I open them just to pull out enough to get us through another night. I google hotels, change River's clothes twice, white mess. And then I call Jess. We're coming over.

River falls asleep in the car. Of course she does. I'm still feeling trails of flu. Another round of lugging bags and the sleeping girl is tucked into another bed that's not hers. I'm ready to sit but don't take off my coat. Jess says, "Hmm, I wonder why it's not getting warm, I turned the heater on awhile ago." It doesn't work. The heater doesn't work. Three hours later, having blown the breaker twice with space heaters, I'm between laughing and longing for a hotel. Laughing because my life doesn't want me to stop yet and I JUST WANT TO STOP.

The next morning I leave River on the couch at 8am, wrapped in a blanket, watching cartoons, and head home to close the windows, turn on the heat, and meet a new house cleaner. Three women arrive and one gives me a hug. "No worries, dear, we will clean up this mess."

She tells me (in a beautiful South African accent) that she is breaking Sabbath, that she doesn't normally work on Saturdays, but when she heard about our situation she couldn't let a three year old sleep in construction dust. So she woke up early and prayed, asked god for permission to work on her Sabbath day for our family. She said, "Where is your daughter's room, we will begin there." With buckets of soapy water, they washed down her walls, wiped every book in her bookshelf, shook out every little shirt on her shelf.

Room by room they cleaned like this, closing the door when each was finished. She found me in the kitchen washing dishes and said, "Oh, yes, we are cleaning every bit of anger and frustration, every bit of darkness in this house." Looking into my eyes she continues, "You think you have lost something, I see that when I look at you, but you must know, God is trying to show you something. God wants you to glorify him from this place, not just when you feel abundant."

I turn on beautiful chants, start the diffuser with lemon oil, and we work together. Different cultures, different traditions, different devotions, and she is my personal angel. I met her just that morning and she stands in my kitchen as if we are sisters.

Before I leave to pick up River I tell her about staying up all night in Berkeley, about Steve asking me where I put God in my life. She takes my arm, leads me into the bathroom, and closes the door. There is really no way in hell that I would listen to anyone tell me the following, but when she begins to pray over me I just burst into tears. "Dear God, please be with us here this morning, please bless this work, and please, dear god, please bless this family. Please show this woman that you have not forgotten her. She feels forgotten by you, holy father. She feels abandoned in this world by you. Please show her that you are with her in every moment, in every situation, especially during this year of loss."

Nose to nose, "Prema, dear, you are the mother of this household. You are the pillar. I want you to come to this room, close the door and pray to god. I want you to spill your soul and say whatever you need to, and when you return to your kitchen, you are the woman and pillar of your home."

I could have said something witty or dismissive. Pretty much every alternative response stood in waiting, ready. I said nothing, except, "Ok, I will. Thank you."

Nine hours later they pack up and leave. "Thank you for bringing us to your home," she says, unbelievably. "Thank you for taking such good care of my family," I say, unbelievably. Big hugs and the compass is reset. It moves from the center and stops.