Homecoming

         

         Walter Blodgett took every step with care: at ninety two a fall could prove fatal. These sidewalks are in bad shape, he thought as he slowly stepped over a seam. City's falling apart.

         "Don't see why I do this," he said, then looked around to make sure he was alone. "At least it's not raining or cold. Could be worse." He stopped and looked up. The sun was clear in the sky and he felt a breeze push gently against his face and hat.

He pulled the thick coat closer to him. Though it was a beautiful day of about seventy five, the warmth of the coat felt good. "An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure," he heard his mother's voice saying in his head every time he put the coat on. Dead and buried long ago, he still heard her voice talking in his head. Sometimes he talked back but she yelled at him when he did.

He took off his hat and ran his fingers through the remaining strands of solid white hair. They were all that covered the skin.

He smelled a delicious smell wafting on the air, a smell that made his stomach twist a little though it wasn't suppertime. The smell reminded him of his mother's cooking. She had been a wonderful cook, surprising him several times a week with different combinations of foods or new recipes and he yearned for her cooking. Her black-eyed peas, cornbread, and grits he found especially wonderful when she cooked them; their house always smelled like a home should smell with the odors that emitted from her kitchen. While he was reminiscing about her cooking, his fingers located a piece of headband inside his hat that was loose and scratchy and they worked it back-and-forth on their own until he caught himself and put the hat back on.

On the days when other people were out, he tried to meet and talk with them. Adults were usually too busy to talk, too busy for folks as old as he was; but children loved him - fascinated by his formal style of clothing and dress which he copied from his father, by his cane with its silver handle - and were always interested in his stories, stories about the first time he saw a car, stories about his mother and father, silly stories about rabbits or pigs or whatever he could create.

He noticed some leaves gently twirling against one another on the sidewalk and knew it wouldn't be long before they, too, would be gone and another fall would change to another winter.

His knee was hurting and he wished he was home. Experience taught him about the pains associated with his daily walk, about the pain of getting out of bed every day; these were lessons he had learned, and wished he didn't have to know.

"Grandpa, grandpa," he heard a young voice yell.

A boy of about five ran up to him and stopped about five feet away, just like he instructed all the children. He always told them that he was fragile and might get hurt if he was knocked down.

"Jeffrey, stop." A woman came running up behind him. "I'm so sorry. I tried to make him stop but he just had to come and see you."

Blodgett chuckled, looked down and smiled at the boy. "That's okay, Jeffrey" he said. "How are you today?"

"Can you tell me a story," the boy said with eyes wide and a smile on his face.

"We don't have the time right now, Jeffrey," his mother said as she tugged at the boy's arm.

"Pleeease."

Blodgett smiled. "How about I tell you a new story about..." He looked at the sky and then back down at the boy. "A story about a troll who lives in a forest instead of under a bridge?"

The boy's eyes widened and he jumped up-and-down. "Yes, yes, please."

"Okay, but I have to finish it first so I'll tell it to you the next time I see you. Is that okay?"

The boy stopped jumping and thought for a moment. "Okay, but you promise?"

Blodgett smiled at the mother. "I promise."

Thank you, the mother mouthed.

Jeffery took his mother's hand and they started back to their house. He turned his head around as he walked and said, "You promise?"

Blodgett smiled at him. "I promise." He watched as they entered their house and waved back as Jeffrey waved one last time.

A troll who lived in a forest? Now where had that come from? He thought for a moment and decided that he didn't know; maybe from remembering his mother's soothing voice reading and telling stories at bedtime; maybe from the mountain of books he read growing up. He didn't know. His thoughts were lost now, picturing a troll that lived in a forest.

He rounded the corner and spied a wagon in the middle of the block. As he approached, he stopped and looked around for its owner and saw no one. He examined the wagon closer. It was an older model, metal instead of the cheap plastic versions that were being made today. The paint was chipped in many places and was a dull red with age in the rest. Rust was taking hold where the paint was gone and would be all consuming before long. Its youth was long gone. Well, we're alike in that, he thought.

This wagon reminded him of when he was ten and Santa Clause had placed one just like it under the Christmas tree. He had labored to pull it up the hill by his house the next day - a day much like this one, he remembered - and sat in it looking down the hill he had just climbed, telling himself that he really did have the courage to ride down it. Other children were yelling for him to just go and he was still debating with himself when he felt someone push him from behind. The wagon built momentum with the decent until he felt like he was going faster than any human had gone before and felt his hair being pushed back by the airflow. All he needed was a pair of wings attached to the sides and he would be airborne.

He was almost to the bottom of the hill when he saw that he was heading for a large tree, aiming for it in fact. At this speed, he knew that if he turned sharply he would spill over, so he turned the handle slightly to the left and felt himself being pulled to the right. but he was still going to hit the tree. He turned the handle more to the left and knew immediately that he had turned too much. The wagon turned sharply, throwing him into the air and, for a few moments, he was actually flying. He hit the tree head-first with his body twisting enough to snap his neck. The sound of the other boys and girls cheering faded into silence, but he never heard it.

Blodgett looked up from the wagon, drawn back into the present with the memory of his death. He was a ten year old boy again, the age at which he would forever stay, and knew it was time to go home.





A car rounded the corner and the driver noticed the old wagon by itself on the sidewalk. Somebody better take that home, he thought, before it disappears.