“It isn’t what’s left to do at the end, it’s the things left unfinished along the way.” — Deadwood, by Pete Dexter
Driving in darkness, I hug the road as it rises and falls through the night. We plunge downward and as trees blow past, I am in a mountain pass, my mind creating walls that can’t possibly exist, for this is Wisconsin, and surely we are surrounded by farmland. But the road tells a different story. Veering right, my headlights glare off the window of a small cabin before sweeping back to the asphalt, trees, and the staccato white line I desperately try to follow. Tired, I flash my brights whenever possible, scanning for those little bounces of light along the roadside. Because the deer are out there, and tonight they’re feeling lucky.
* * *
When we were kids, my siblings and I would occasionally find mom face down on the laundry room floor. Familiar with the situation, we would stand around her.
“Mom? Mom? We know you’re joking mom. Mom? Come on, mom, get up.”
And still, she would remain motionless, to all appearances having suffered some sudden cardiac episode. This would continue until someone’s voice took on an edge of panic, and then her body would begin to quiver, the movement growing ever more convulsive, until, finally, we’d realize she was laughing. Releasing the sound as she got to her feet, she’d laugh so hard tears would come to her eyes. And while down through the years this story has been met with universal horror, it’s always made me proud. Even at a very young age, when it came to death, no babies we.
* * *
Having eluded the deer, and found our hotel, we continue on the next morning, refreshed. Unable to find a diner in downtown Janesville, we settle for a chain restaurant out by the highway, the kind of place where the portions are huge, but it seems they occasionally run soup through the coffee maker.
Chicago is Chicago. Rain, road construction and the slow tide of humanity crawling down through the northwest suburbs, past the rusty overpasses and the neighborhoods of my youth. Occasionally I miss it. There’s no better place to make friends, and of course it gave me Amy. But nevertheless, Chicago and I never warmed to each other.
Back on familiar ground, we fly. The Skyway, Gary, and around the lake into Michigan. That great gray swath of the world where the steel plants have been silenced but the smoke never seems to go away. Cars, campers, exits and boats; a great world of motion that always seems to be going fishing.
And then we’re at Mom’s house. A quick repacking, hiking boots and dirty clothes boxed up to be dropped in the mail, and off to the airport. But even before I reach the counter, they tell me my flight has been canceled. The storms, currently raging over Lake Michigan, have followed us all the way from South Dakota. There will be no flight home tonight.
* * *
When my father died I was not nearly so well prepared as I’d imagined. It effected me in ways I still don’t understand. I know it created a distance. A safety zone, as it were, from the people I love. My kids have chopped this down a bit by simply refusing to recognize it. And Amy, trail-blazer that she is, has grown familiar with the terrain, and is willing to cross it when I cannot. But my mom, my sister and my brothers are still out there, loved, but at the distance they were placed by a fourteen year old who could not bear another loss. Each of us, in our ways, living these past 38 years with slowly mending hearts.
But we’re not alone.
From the unexpected death of Amy’s father, which started this journey, to friends along the way, and their stories of prairie wind, blinding snow, and the sudden loss of the people they’d thought to spend the rest of their lives with, we are not alone. From the families of others, further back, buried beneath the mud of a collapsing dam, to the loved ones of those lost in the violence of a place and time that valued gold above human life, we are not alone. And with the stories of a family who struggled, built a life, and died, leaving quiet houses, a few gravestones and the fields they worked, we are not alone.
* * *
You know when you drink a lot of coffee in the morning, and about an hour, hour and a half later you really need to go to the bathroom? You know what that’s called? Prostate cancer. — Lesson from my mother
Our first days on the road, I was struck by her calm assurance. Like a bird aloft in strong winds, her mind, of late, had seemed unable to settle and find rest. But the woman beside me was different. Seemingly free of worry, she was less a mother, and more a friend. The comfort of her presence was palpable. The ways in which we are alike, and the simple pleasures we share, brought days of quiet enjoyment.
But on our return the serenity slipped away. When I pointed this out, she replied, “Well that’s normal. To return home is to return to your worries.” Which I understand, but can’t agree with. Home is a refuge. I struggle to make it so. Where did I learn this if not from her?
* * *
It had rained, and the cabbie splashed along the quiet streets of my neighborhood. He was chatty, which I enjoyed. I love how easily people talk here. If the best journeys bring you home, I was glad of his company these final few blocks.
He pulled up to the curb, and as I grabbed my bags I looked up at our house. Not a worry in sight.
* * *
A few weeks later, in response to something I posted on my wedding anniversary, my mother writes: “I feel your love for each other when ever I am around you!”
Playing in the City with Trains 
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