It has been eighteen months since I last wrote, so please forgive any and all rustiness. In a way, this is my story, too. Coming home after any extended absence, especially one in which much change is involved, can be an anxious situation. I am glad to be back, and to share with you all our friends at the Relay Station.
Of course, I do not own anything; the best things of life cannot be bought nor sold.
It was a warm summer night just after sunset when I gently reigned in on the hill overlooking the old homestead. It was very dark down there, not much in the way of signs of life. The old barn stood like a sentinel in the night with the house and outbuildings crouched around it.
Memories whispered around me. Laughing, arguing, joy, anger—too many to name. A lot of water had flowed under the bridge of life since then. A lot of heart-ache, new friends, new enemies, a lot of time. Maybe too much time.
A movement below catches my horse's attention. He pricks his ears and breathes, but is too well trained to make much noise. I see it now. The horses in the corral below have noticed us.
I lift the reins and we move down, slowly. Past landmarks noticed only by one who's travelled this way often, even if it was so long ago. Well-known fence posts—hammered my thumb on that one—well-known water troughs, enjoyed that one on a hot day, a well-known blaze face reaching over the fence with a soft inquisitive whicker; but this one mocks. This half-grown horse was born just before I left.
I reach the barn and step down. The grey wood still hasn't been painted, or maybe it was, but time again has laughed at me and worn it off. I open the door. It squeaks where it always did. I grin dryly and lift it over the protesting noise and lead my mount inside.
In the golden glow of the lantern I see a mix of familiar and foreign, and I wonder how it can be both so strongly at the same time. Tack and tools are where they always were, and the task is soon done.
Blowing out the lantern, I return it to its hook and securely fasten the barn door. I readjust my hat and study the house. One light glows out through the kitchen, but it must be on the desk in the front room. A slight shadow passes it. Bigger than the boy I left, too small to be a man.
Once a haven of security, what does it hold now? I think back to the day I left and set my jaw. Who knew so many things could change in that amount of time, how many could stay the same?
One, two, three, four strides bring me to the back door. My hand on the latch, I take a deep breath and let myself inside. I close the door so quietly, I'm sure no one has heard. The kitchen looks the same, smells the same: wood smoke, lamp-oil, coffee, and tonight's supper, long finished, hangs in the air.
It looks so much the same, yet I feel strangely out of place, like the piece of the jig-saw puzzle that could fit here, but might go better somewhere else.
My throat starts to close in and I almost turn to go, to ride on and pretend I never tried to come back, it'd be easier that way; when suddenly I hear a familiar step come in the front room, a familiar, but older voice murmur something to someone else, and my feet move me toward the doorway to face old friends, old family.
We stand and stare for a tension filled second. The air around us seems to freeze, we replay feelings, thoughts, words, recognize and acknowledge just how many miles have passed under that bridge of time, and suddenly, it doesn't matter.
We are locked in a fierce bear hug, letting our feelings disperse through strong arms and a few suspicious drops of moisture that course down our faces.
The ugly, heavy, nagging tension I have worn on my shoulder for the past who knows how long is gone. The fear I carried has flown away. My heart is healed by the words gently, hoarsely whispered in my ear,
"Welcome home, Pard. Welcome home."
And I am home.