Homeward bound

A thick gray mist hovers, hiding the green mountain splendor of Santa Barbara. The small bus is full, and I get up hastily, following her* off the bus. As I near the front, a small girl glares at me and says to her mom, "Ella tiene varisela (She has chicken pox)." I am caught off guard, but quickly recover, "No tengo varisela (I don't have chicken pox)." I glare back. My freckles seem to have a similar effect on many of the kids here. Elias once asked me if they would go away when I got to heaven.

We cross the road and climb upward. Trash litters the bumpy road. I listen as she points out different people she knows or places she used to play. We're going home. I spot her sister in a group of kids ahead. We descend a little, and after saying hello to uncles and aunts, we continue to climb down. Dirt steps and tree stumps are the walkway. The house is new, concrete blocks and a shiny, silver roof. A pot simmers on an outdoor stove and her mom beckons us to come in. We hesitate in the doorway, and she repeats the invitation. I take off my paper thin flip flops and stand in the entryway. She tells her mom I want to see pictures, and a small High School Musical photo album is handed to me. I sit down and begin to look at each picture, asking questions and trying to savor each one equally, even if the photo doesn't interest me. There are pictures of uncles, kindergarten graduations and babies, each one colored with age and use. This pathetic collection of pictures feels like treasure in my hands. We laugh together as her mom comments on a picture of a sassy little girl, a girl who isn't so very different from the one who sits beside me.

We go in search of her grandmother who lives in another house. Back up the dirt steps and trash-laden hillside and we're there. The conversation ebbs and flows like an ocean tide, I nod my head and agree now and then. Questions seem to fail me and I look around awkwardly. A cartoon sheet hangs behind the grandmother's chair, separating the small bedroom from where we sit. A small, skinny black puppy scampers about, finally settling on a scrap of flowery cloth under the table. Baby chicks hop around in the other room.

It's hard for me to focus at times as I remember stories she's told me. It's hard for me to extend my hand to say goodbye to the man who beats her mom. It's hard for me to smile at women who sold her body to a horrid old man. It's hard, life is hard. From the muddy candy wrappers and crusty dirt path to the bleak sky overhead, I see the struggle. There's a struggle here to climb those dirt steps and go somewhere, to be someone. And while the pain of yesterday lingers, there's hope. I see hope in her smile. I see hope in her eyes. It tugs at the edges, edges that overflow with tears on hard days and sparkle with laughter on silly days. I only want her to know, to feel, to change, to forget, to forgive, to grow, to live.

Moments here pass in the blink of an eye, moments I treasure, moments I abhor. Her home is here, mine is there, but we have a home together that I one day hope to see.

We're going home, together. Home, forever.