The Long Road Home

The dusty Greyhound Bus rolled into the Old Town Station with tired and relieved passengers. My name is Rebecca Rodriquez and I was one of them. Crying and crabby children hung onto their parents acting afraid of abandonment. Slowly, we all walked off the bus and waited for our suitcases. I only had one but it seemed forever to retrieve it.

I looked about and saw that nothing changed Old Town since I left fifteen years ago. At that time, I was a young idealistic girl heading to the State University on a four-year scholarship making my parents proud of their only daughter and her achievement.

My Uncle Juan drove up in his blueJeep looking for me among the bus riders. I recognized him right away. Waving my arm in his direction he waved back.

"Rebecca, you look all grown up."

Smiling widely, I responded, "Uncle Juan you haven't aged one bit----your hair is still dark when I saw you the last time."

Grabbing my suitcase, he said, "You are flattering your old uncle."

It was Uncle Juan who called me several years ago to tell me that my parents had died in a car accident and were to be buried in the local cemetery. I was in shock when he told me. My life turned upside down. I was an orphan without parents left all alone in the cold world.

The memorial service consisted of people wearing black----looking like crows all sitting on a back fence. Through tearful eyes, the entire scene was of people shaking my hands or hugging me saying how sorry they were for my loss. I felt so sorry for myself. Before my parents' untimely death, I started my first job after college graduation with a local school district as a teacher of the Spanish language. I was thrilled with the teaching position and felt on top of the world until it erupted----sending me on a downhill tumble of despair.

Somehow, I survived and knew it was time to
return to the old house which was standing empty for years. Uncle Juan, being a responsible caretaker, kept a close eye on the house. In phone calls and occasional letters, I thanked him and sent checks to help with repairs when needed.

The drive to the house was about a half-hour away on the dusty interstate. Finally, we turned onto the circular drive and parked underneath the carport. The adobe house looked so alone as I felt when my parents died. Taking a deep breath, I stepped up to the front oak-carved door as Uncle Juan unlocked it. Stepping inside, time stood still----nothing changed not even the lace curtains my mother was so proud of. The house was waiting for me to come home. It welcomed me with open arms as my parents would have, had they still been alive.

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