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, where I was nobody’s distant relative, no one’s forgotten or estranged friend. There, where people didn’t wield murderous thoughts, words, and actions like bloody bayonets. There, where nearby cities didn’t burn. Where I could see the sky full of stars. Life in the country was full of possibility, not aching with loss.

That morning, I belonged again. I knew my place in the world. That morning, at dawn in that hour when the world was still fresh, I rushed outside to the garden with a flashlight searching for Rudy the Rooster.

Out of the blue one hot summer day, Rudy had showed up, a refugee from a nearby farm with too many roosters. I was charmed by the big cocky squatter who claimed the yard and followed me everywhere, peering in the windows on the front porch when I went inside. I didn’t chase him off because he reminded me of living next-door to a neighbor with chickens. His full-throated calls to the dawn were ones I didn’t remember that I never heard anymore. Until I did.

I was attached to Rudy, not because he was friendly or deserved it, but for what he represented: the Home I left more than forty years ago. I loved his voice, if not always the 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, despised each other. The Professor swore he’d take a pitchfork to him someday but never did. Instead I kept my eye on him and the Professor gave him a wide berth.

We built a small enclosure around Rudy’s coop to keep foxes, coyotes, and raccoons at bay, but he liked to fly over his fence and perch in the cherry trees in the evening. In the morning he’d scratch around in the garden and barnyard.

I penned him in an enclosed coop at night but the evening before that morning he didn’t come when I called with breadcrumbs. Instead, he holed up God-only-knows-where, refusing to be sheltered. I can’t say I lost sleep over him, but I got up when he began crowing at 4:30 and rushed out into the dawn grateful, looking for my obstinate chicken.

And in that hour that morning, listening to him crow took me back. I imagined myself a child, running to the barn carefree, confident, and barefoot through the dewy grass. The jasmine was blooming, perfuming the air. The wind rustled through the tops of the sycamore trees. I felt anticipation. Promise. Joy.

Back to a time when people cared for each other, when we weren’t so damn mean. A time when yes meant yes and no meant no. When we felt secure. A time when we didn’t wish everyone would shut up and leave us alone. A time when I didn’t. But of course the morning didn’t last.

Rudy didn’t live much longer after that day. I was careless and let him spend too many nights outside his coop. I guess I figured he was too big to fall prey but one night a raccoon, I think, sheered Rudy’s red head right off his neck. A guillotine couldn’t have been more precise. He collapsed headless in the corner of his pen and was nearly stiff by the time I found him. Under his talons, hair, flesh, and blood evidenced his last struggle. My fierce rooster didn’t go down easily.

I felt bad and I felt relieved. If I loved his call, having him around was a liability to us, the dogs, and our grandchildren. But several years later we sold out and moved to a subdivision nearby anyway. It was time. We’d aged and that place was too much for us. So, now I’m another step further removed from Home than I was then.

If I focus though, close my eyes and summon up his call to the dawn, I can still remember joy, still imagine being that little girl. The memories well up from the depths of my soul again and spill from my eyes. Rudy has taken me back once again and I am there. Home.

Lord, how I miss it.