New Hope
I recently attended my grandmother’s funeral. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to her. We all expected her to make it through chemo and live another year. I had anticipated visiting her soon, but her death came suddenly. I hadn’t written her a letter or given her a call. I was too late.
The memories I have of my grandmother linger from the earliest part of my life. I wasn’t close to my grandparents, but when I reminisce about my visits to their home just outside of New Hope, Texas as a young child, I reconnect to those days of innocence, the wonder of discovery, and the lightheartedness that comes with freedom from responsibility, or rather the freedom of not knowing what responsibility is.
My grandparents’ house in New Hope was destroyed by a tornado many years ago. Their new home was quite a drive from that place, so I was unable to return to New Hope until I was an adult. And still I have only been able to make it there twice. But as I drove down that wooded country road I distinctly recalled the innocence and wonder and freedom of my experiences on that plot of land. The feelings would begin to overwhelm my mind and heart, losing me in nostalgia and longing. The haze of life would dissipate, my senses would teem, and I’d feel fully alive; not happy, sad, or even transported, but free.
When I am feeling the weight of adulthood, or I am laden with guilt or remorse; when I am shrouded in obscurity and weariness, and even though my grandparents have moved on in their journey, my heart finds renewal in New Hope.
