By Joa n L. Cannon
Published at Smashwords by Write Words, Inc.
Copyright 2004 by Joan L. Cannon
Julia is on her way home for the first time in many years. There's a nagging voice in the back of her mind that she tries to hush telling her it's probably for the last time. It's this sense of an ending that makes her want to preserve whatever she can by recording it. She's thinking of her brother and sister and the children, and for their children. She wonders besides if what she intends to set down might provide material for stories she hasn't written yet. The notion occurs to her that such narratives might grow like accretions in a stream, taking shapes that look more random than perhaps they are. Like most writers, she's afraid she'll let an opportunity escape.
As memories unfurl across her mind's eye like the miles on the odometer, she resolves to do her best to preserve them—even those that are incomplete, even with the imagined details there's no way she could have seen at the time.
A journey like this is fraught with an amorphous burden, not just of the past, but of the unknown. She recalls Robert Frost's wonderfully sad and true poem in which he said, Home is the place where, when you have to go there, /they have to take you in. Like a Jungian memory, that knowledge has persisted with Julia all her life, until now, when at last she recognizes it.