Going Home

When Celia awoke she was still shivering. Remnants of the dream still lingered in her consciousness. Mostly, she remembered the snow. As a child, she always loved the winter. Even while lying in her warm bed, remembering brought back the feel of the icy sting of the cold winter air, the crisp smell of the freshly fallen snow and the angry crunch of her footsteps as she walked across the yard to the barn. Her dog, Rascal, would inch out of his doghouse at the sound of her approach then stand up to stretch while he waited for her to reach him. He would then follow behind her gaily as she completed her chores before they returned to the house for breakfast.

She blinked and chased away the last pieces of the dream. All she could remember was that she had been dreaming of home and the snow. Mostly she had been dreaming about the snow. That was why she had been shivering. The room was still dark, although she was sure the sun must have risen some time ago. With a reluctant sigh, Celia threw back the light cover and got out of bed. As she walked over to the window, it didn’t take her long to realize why the sunshine had not invaded her morning. Rain. Winter in Los Angeles brought rain. Well, sometimes it did. Today was one of those days.

The sky was dark grey and heavy drops of water angrily pounded the ground. As usual, the water rushing along the curb threatened to become a small river as it raced to the nearest sewer opening. In a city nearly encased in cement, the welcome rain had nowhere to hide and was forced into concrete river beds that led to the sea. How sad that a valuable resource was quickly reduced to an inconvenience and tossed away like a broken toy. Snow, however, was not so easy to dismiss. It would blanket the ground jealously and cling stubbornly to the impassive cement until it was forced away by the sun’s warmth or human intervention.

Turning away from the window, Celia crossed the small room to the tiny kitchen area. After adding water to the silver teakettle, she turned on one of the burners on her small stove. She watched as the wisps of blue and white flame encircled the iron ring in the center then placed the kettle on the burner. For a moment, she was hypnotized by the flames that danced along the bottom edge of the teakettle. The single honk of a car horn outside her window broke her concentration and she turned away from the stove.

While waiting for the water to boil, she set upon the task of transforming her bed into a sofa. It was a relatively simple process to straighten the sheets and cover, fold the mattress back into its hiding place, then return the sofa’s cushions to their place atop the folded bed. As she closed the door after returning the bed pillows to their place in the small walk-in closet on the other side of the room, the teakettle began to whistle and she returned to the stove. She turned off the burner and took a small red box from the shelf above the sink. The box held small packets of coffee that worked just like tea bags and she put one of the packets into her cup. Pouring the hot water into the cup released the aroma of the coffee as the packet became saturated. The warm scent that wafted around her face awoke another memory.

Every day of her life, for as long as she could remember, the first thing Celia’s mother did was make coffee. While waiting for the water to boil, she would pick up the stove pipe style aluminum coffee pot that always sat on the stove and disassemble it into its three pieces. The bottom was the main part of the pot and it was left empty to await the freshly made coffee. The middle piece was a strainer that held the carefully counted spoonfuls of ground coffee. The top was the container for the boiling hot water that dripped through the holes on the bottom to flood the ground coffee and turned the hot water into the dark brown liquid that eventually filled the bottom pot. The smell of the newly made coffee that filled the house was always a pleasant part of the morning.

Celia picked up her cup of coffee and walked back over to the window. The rain had stopped and the sky was now a lighter shade of grey. She watched as people began to appear on the sidewalks and cars began to fill the street while she slowly sipped her coffee. Another day had begun and, while most people would be continuing through the day much the same as they had the day before, Celia’s routine had been broken.

The coffee had grown cold and the few drops left were beginning to stain the bottom of the cup she held in her hand and still she stood at the window. “There will be no sun today,” she thought as she turned her eyes to the sky. She reluctantly turned away from the window and walked back to the little kitchen to wash and dry the cup then return it to its place in the small cupboard. After glancing at her watch, she decided it was time to shower and get dressed.

Showered and dressed, her next task was to pull a battered, old suitcase from the back of the closet. It was the only one she had. It was the one that had accompanied her to Los Angeles. Los Angeles. The big wide world. She chuckled softly as she laid the suitcase on the sofa. What knowledge she had of Los Angeles had been acquired through books and television, but she hadn’t been disappointed. The city had an undeniable electricity. It was in the air and in the words and actions of the people who lived here. It was a strange mixture of a nonchalant lifestyle mixed with the need to go, to see, to feel; and there was the added element of danger that always seemed to be lurking just on the edge of it all. She still had not yet assimilated into this world and she moved through each day without really connecting with anyone or anything.

It did not take long for her to pack her bag. One bag was certainly sufficient. Her wardrobe had not grown much beyond what she had brought with her, except for a few things more suitable for the warmer climate. The rain had caught her off guard. It could carry a chill that rivaled the one that accompanied the snow and she was glad she had brought some of her winter clothing with her.

Celia closed the suitcase and set it on the floor by the front door then looked around the apartment. Nothing was out of place. She had made sure there was nothing that could spoil in the cupboard or refrigerator. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to take care of, nothing to keep her from leaving; yet, she hesitated. Taking a long, deep breath she picked up her purse and her suitcase and left the apartment.

Her little car waited patiently in the dilapidated old car port that was just about empty by this time of the morning. She tossed her suitcase into the back seat before getting into the car then backed slowly out of the carport and drove down the alley. When she reached the street, once again, she hesitated. The traffic had cleared more than once before she finally eased into the throng of vehicles all impatient to reach their destination. As she became a part of the mass movement of steel, she thought about all the people in the hundreds of vehicles moving through the city. They were all on their way to work, to school or to somewhere with a purpose. Celia was going home.

As the crush of cars inched their way down the freeway, Celia realized she had underestimated how long “rush hour” really lasted. She normally left for work early to avoid the traffic. Since she was heading away from the city, she figured she would soon be out of the congestion. Eventually, the amount of cars dwindled and the miles began to pass uneventfully.

How different she felt this time. The morning she left home to come to Los Angeles she was filled with excitement and anticipation, today she was calm and detached. She remembered her parents’ faces watching her as she left. There were tears, of course, but they had never tried to discourage her from leaving. They would miss her, but they didn’t need her.

Celia knew that her parents were very young when they married. They were both born in San Francisco and while others their age chanted and protested against society, her parents had fled the city and found a place to make their own world. Her father had fallen in love with the clean air and the open space while her mother had fallen in love with the simple little house. Her mother planted a small garden and made curtains and other things for the house. Her father built wooden furniture, beautiful pieces that he carefully created and sold reluctantly. It was a good life and Celia was happy, but she always knew she was just a piece of their life. She knew they loved her, but they were so complete together that Celia always felt like a bit of frosting on a cake, nice but unnecessary.

She stopped for the night at a pretty little motel with quaint little cabins that felt like miniature houses. Just after the sun rose, she drove away from the cabin, anxious to complete her journey. It was mid-afternoon when she turned down the road leading to her parents’ home. The main roads had been cleared, but this was just a little dirt road and it was now snow covered. She knew the way, but she drove slowly. When she reached the bend in the road, she stopped. Rather than drive up to the house, Celia turned off the engine and got out of the car so she could walk the rest of the way.

The sun was shining but it was not warm enough to melt the snow that blanketed the ground and the crunch of Celia’s footsteps echoed quietly in the cool air. As she slowly walked around the bend, she gasped. The house was gone. She knew it, the caring voice on the phone had told her, but she was not prepared for the reality.

Part of a wall remained and, here and there, short pieces of wood stood straight up in the snow. The wood was scorched and blackened from the flames that had engulfed the small house. She slowly walked past the space where the house had once stood. Snow had fallen since the fire but the light coating of white could not conceal the charred remnants lying on the dark ground. She crossed to the edge of the property where an old tree stump sat. After brushing off some of the snow, she sat down on the stump and looked around at what was left. The small barn had not been touched and Rascal’s doghouse still stood at the corner, even though Rascal had died several years ago. She knew that inside the barn there would be a few unfinished pieces that her father would have been working on waiting silently for him to finish. The tears she had not yet been able to shed began to slip slowly down her cheeks.

Suddenly the dream that had been haunting her sleep came rushing into her consciousness. In her mind, she watched helplessly while the flames traveled through the house and eventually encased the small building. The snow around the burning building melted and turned to steam that floated up from the ground and mingled with the smoke billowing above the fire. The flames eventually died and the embers slowly cooled. The air turned colder and, in her dream, she saw each snowflake gently fall one by one to softly cover the tortured ground.

The dream faded and as Celia stared at the empty space, she knew the dream was gone. A long, deep sigh relieved the tightness in her chest and her tears stopped. She was about to stand up when she saw a figure in the distance. She watched as the man walked past the barn and towards her.

“Celia?” he said as he stopped in front of her.

“Hello, Mr. Benson.”

“My goodness, girl, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“It has been a while.” She smiled and the man looked away for a moment.

“I’m sorry about your mother and father,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Well, if there’s anything I can do for you, you just let me know.”

“I will, thank you.” He looked at her for a moment as if he was trying to decide if he believed her.

“Well,” he said finally, “I better be going. We’ll see you later.” She nodded in assent then watched him as he continued on his way.

When he was gone, she stood up, and slowly looked around. She realized that there was no sense of loss here, no regrets or sadness. She knew that her mother and father were together as they had always been and she also knew she was not alone. Someday there might be a new home here, but it would belong to a stranger. In a few days, Celia would be returning to her little apartment and eventually this place would be only a warm memory.

Celia smiled as she walked towards her car. Soon she would be going home.