We received the less-than-optimal news yesterday that Andry will need surgery on his knee. Apparently he had a fracture without realizing it, and now there’s a piece of his kneecap floating around wreaking havoc.
Or something like that, anyway. When it comes to all things medical, I’m even worse at it in Spanish than I am in English. Which is really saying something.
I hate seeing my love in pain, and with my own surgery still fresh in my mind, I’m nervous for him. Even though I have to believe he will be in good hands, and that once he’s all healed up he’ll no longer be in the debilitating pain he’s in right now. So, positive thoughts!
It’s not just the fact that Andry’s hurting that has me down. To put it frankly, the timing of it stinks. Because it means we’ll have to put off the long-awaited trip/delayed honeymoon we were planning for this fall. I know, in the scheme of things, the trip is inconsequential in comparison to surgery. It’s just that we were both really excited for what would have been Andry’s first trip to the US and an opportunity for him to meet more of the crazy cast of characters in my life – family and otherwise.
What I was looking forward to most, though, was the chance to show him where I grew up. To introduce him to the 152-acres that raised me as much as my parents did, and to the house where I grew up. Because I truly was bringing him home.
We’ll get there eventually, I know. But I’m still disappointed. I’ve been getting a bit nostalgic for those familiar rolling hills of late, as another gorgeous Central New York summer passes by without me there to experience it first hand.
It reminded me of a poem I wrote while living in Western Colorado. It was an anniversary present for my parents. But in the writing of it, I realized where my heart truly was. And it wasn’t in that junction between the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains and the High Plains Desert. I moved back to Chenango County less than a year later.
I’m not in the same situation today. I absolutely love my life in the Dominican Republic. But that doesn’t mean a part of me doesn’t miss Home.
the scent of the fields in summer,
newly cut hay
and tiny wild strawberries
baking in the sun.
the wild iris
in the high grass of the pasture.
The forty-watt glow of lightning bugs
dancing at dusk.
fingers of rain
tapping me to sleep
on the panes of glass above my head,
the silence of night
by an unexpected storm.
the spearmint taste
of water from the spring.
The roar of water
rushing in the creek.
with heavy morning dew
long grown from bushes into trees.
the cool stillness of the woods
soft pine needles
cushioning my feet,
near the Indian well.
The snort of a buck
startled from the brush.
the scarred trunks of shagbark hickory
standing tall at the tree line,
flanked by walls of stone picked
from a hundred years of fresh-plowed fields.
sitting on the stone patio
with the long shadows of late afternoon,
cup of tea in hand.
I miss Home.
© 2007 Melissa Stagnaro