Almost There, Home
sometimes near, yet always out of reach
That morning, I almost touched it. Home. The past. I closed my eyes and was almost there. There, before I became somebody's distant relative, somebody's forgotten, estranged friend. There, when people didn't wield murderous thoughts, words, or actions like bloody bayonets. There when cities didn't burn, no one rioted, and life in the country was full of possibility, not aching with loss. That morning, I imagined I belonged again. I knew my place in the world. That morning at dawn, the world seemed fresh and new. That morning I rushed outside to the garden with a flashlight searching for Rudy the Rooster.
Years before, out of the blue one hot summer day, Rudy had shown up, a refugee from a nearby farm with too many roosters. We were charmed by the big cocky squatter who claimed our yard and followed us everywhere, peering in the windows on our front porch when we went inside. I liked him because he reminded me of being a child who lived next-door to a neighbor with chickens. Rudy's full throated crows in the dawn were ones I hadn't thought of or heard for years.
I became attached to Rudy, not because he was friendly or deserved it, but for what he represented: the home I left forty years ago. I loved his voice, if not always the cranky rooster. He was a barnyard terrorist upon whom I learned not to turn my back. Once, after he hurled himself at the back of my legs spurs first, I tried to dispatch him with a rake. I missed. He and my husband, the Professor, went round and round and neither of them were merciful or forgiving. One day Rudy spurred the back of the Professor's legs and he hurled a stump at Rudy. It hit him and the rooster spent three days hiding under the raspberry bushes (much to my dismay). The Professor swore he'd take a pitchfork to him someday and I carried a rake to defend myself. I kept my eye on him and the Professor gave him a wide berth.
But because chickens are, apparently, delectable treats to predators, the Professor helped me build a small enclosure around his coop to keep out foxes, coyotes, and raccoons at night. Rudy preferred to roost in the cherry trees after dusk and one night not even breadcrumbs would lure him into his coop. Instead, he holed up in the trees, refusing to be protected. I can't say I lost sleep over him but I did jump out of bed when he began crowing at 4:30 and rushed out into the dawn grateful, looking for that chicken. In that early hour, listening to him crow from his perch in the trees, he beckoned me home again and I became a child running to the barn carefree, confident, and barefoot through the dewy grass. The smell of blooming jasmine perfumed the air, and the musky smell of my father's ewes wafted toward me from the barn. I could almost taste juicy red watermelon and felt a swell of pride that came from spitting seeds further than the neighbor kids did. The cool breeze rustled through the tops of the sycamore trees and tousled my hair. Life was full of anticipation, promise, and joy. I felt secure. Safe.
A few weeks after that morning, Rudy's song was gone. Because of his size and warrior spirit I began leaving him outside his coop at night. He seemed invincible but one night a raccoon, we think, sheered his head right off his neck. A guillotine couldn't have been more precise. I found him headless, collapsed in the corner of his pen. Hair and flesh under his talons told me that Rudy didn't go down easily. I felt bad because I was fond of him but I also felt relieved I would no longer have to be Rudy's vessel of mercy, standing between him and the Professor.
Several years later we sold our place and moved to a subdivision nearby, to a home where there are no roosters nearby. It was as if a portal to my past was closed though still sometimes if I close my eyes, I imagine his call to the dawn and remember. Memories well up from the depths of my soul and spill out in tears. For the briefest of moments, Rudy's beckoned me back again and I am there. My childhood home. I almost touch it.