I haven’t posted a short story in a while, so I thought you might like this one. My large extended family lives on each side of the Atlantic and even after all the years, there is still a fine thread which goes back and forth across the ocean joining us together.
My Aunt Jean was one of my grandfather’s many sisters, she followed a brother and a sister to Canada in the 1920s. She always said you have to go back before you really know where you belong. Her life in Canada was the subject of many, many family stories, some of which might possibly have been true.
The picture is because “moose in the lake” was one of my favourite of all those stories, along with black bears in the trash bins and mistaking a skunk and babies for the family black and white cat and her kittens.
The wind ripped the handkerchief she had been waving from her fingers and carried off high above the liner’s bows.
Despite the cold she could not bring herself to go below, she stood by the rail and watched the shore slipped further and further away as the evening tide carrying them out. She knew when she came on deck tomorrow green waters would have turned to blue and the land would be a memory.
She had always promised herself she would go home, go back to her mother and all her brothers and sisters. Every part of her had ached for the familiar faces and familiar places of home.
Eventually she could bear the aching need no longer and she had packed her case and fled back to the land of her birth.
Once there, softly and quietly the familiar had wrapped itself about her. Remembered sights and smells and sounds had woven in and out of her senses, drawing her back to the places she had left when she had begun her great adventure.
She had come home and home had welcomed her with open arms, but now she was leaving them again, crossing back over the great ocean.
As the light finally faded and she could no longer see the dark shadow of the land, her thoughts turned to the wooden cabin by the lake.
The fruit harvest would over and soon the trees would blaze with the colours of autumn, heralding the promise of the long white winter to come.
He would be there, waiting.
When she left, she believed she was going back to where she belonged, but now the ship was carrying her back to him and to the land she knew she would now forever more call home.
© Bev Allen 2015