Welcome Home

Fiction by Duncan Shepard

A gentle summer breeze tumbled a leaf across the gravel driveway, kicking up specs of dust as it went. In the distance, two cardinals whistled back and forth, maybe a love song. Grandpa died before I met him, but there he stood at the end of the driveway, warm smile beaming. 

“Hi, I’ve heard some much about you from your dad. It’s nice to meet you.” His big hand took mine. “I’m going to help you on your journey.”

My little legs could barely keep up as we reached the pavement of the road. Each step I took, I got a little older. I felt it in my stride as we encountered a sea of dandelions. I let go of Grandpa’s hand and ran into them, picking up certain ones and blowing with all my might. The white parachuted seeds floated around, drifting in the morning sun.

Mom and Dad looked on, until I stumbled across my sister sitting in a red wagon.

“Ride?” She asked. Her lips were chapped but her spirit was irresistible. The dandelions sunk into the ground, being replaced by flashes of orange and red in the trees that surrounded us. 

I giggled and grabbed the handle on the wagon, dashing around the perimeter of the field. 

“Faster!” she yelled. When we got to the edge, near the pavement, she grew too big for the wagon. My own arms and legs had grown—awkward proportions. She got out of the wagon and began walking down a side street. A woman was waiting for her, just like Grandpa had been waiting for me. 

“See you soon, Eunie,” Grandpa waved at the woman. She waved back.

“Why can’t I go with my sister?” 

“She has her own journey, but don’t worry, you’ll see her again.”

I swallowed a lump of sorrow and took a deep breath through my nose. We continued our walk. Now, I was more confident in my thoughts and my body, taking bigger steps.

The narrow road had scattered homes as far as I could see. Each house was in a different season. The autumnal smell filled my nostrils as we made our way past a big oak tree, its leaves littered on a hilly lawn. The branches, mere bony fingers of a tired wise being, spread out over the roof of the little yellow cottage.

The house’s gutters were clogged, and a blue jay picked through them for sticks. It would build its own house from mine. I saw myself, older, through the big bay window, wandering around the living room. Playing grown-up but I couldn’t have been more than in my early 20s, still far younger than Grandpa looked. 

“You’ll learn a lot here. Some lessons will come harder than others, but they’re all worth it.” 

I clutched Grandpa’s sleeve, and we continued our stroll. Between the next two houses on the street, I saw a stage in a far-off garden. There I was, my long hair fluttering about as I strummed a black guitar. My girlfriend played a brown upright piano. Rabbits, groundhogs, and chipmunks sat perched watching me, as if trying to understand my human birdcall that wasn’t violent like other humans. I lifted my guitar in the air, wielding it like a wizard’s staff.

Grandpa chuckled. “So much like your dad. Your love of music and trying to understand the world will follow you through life.”

I turned my attention back to the road. Spring came with a brief flurry of rain and sprouting flowers as a quaint red 1920s house appeared. There I was again, this time older, but probably not much wiser. I watched as I had the hood to my redfire Mustang propped open and my wife brought me a cold Pabst beer. I sipped at it, scratching the back of my head as I figured out how to change the hood latch and make sense of my life at the same time. 

“Grandpa, you used to work on cars too?” I asked.

“Part of my identity, I loved being under the hood of a car. The way everything works is straight forward, unlike people. There’s nothing quite like making a car run smoothly with my own two hands. There’s an honesty in that.” He looked at the bumper on the ground, the blue toolbox opened next to it, and he took a step toward it. “Looks like you have a bit of a knack for it too, wish I could lend you a hand.” 

The long screwdriver glistened in the sun as a small black cat perched in the windowsill watched my every move. “Can we stay here awhile?” I asked.

“You’ll learn soon, everything keeps moving. Even if you want things to stay the same. You need to appreciate what you have while you have it.”

I nodded—the words made sense although I didn’t quite grasp the sentiment. I trusted Grandpa.

My nose twitched as the air grew crisp and bitter, a shiver ran down my spine. The next few houses were blanketed in snow. Thirtysomething me was trapped inside the house, but I was trying to get out, pushing snow from the doorway with a shovel. The white powder piled higher and higher. The road was covered in dozens of footprints; travelers who’d come before me. 

“Isolation—you’ll make it through,” Grandpa said. “Many have walked this way, you didn’t know them, but you all shared the same path.”

There were vacant lots, where houses had burned to their foundations. “Choices not made, some good, some bad,” Grandpa said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “But brace yourself for the next place.” 

The house looked well kept from the outside, but inside there were no lights, only darkness. I saw myself carrying a small wooden box that I recognized from my youth, full of trinkets and heirlooms that my dad held sacred. I was older, I could see it in my face, the way my eyes focused to stay present. I wore a black suit and red tartan tie.

“Why am I so sad?”

“You’ve had loss and hurt before, but this is a different kind of loss. It’ll never really leave you but you’re strong now, you’ll push through and take memories and their characters forward with you.” 

My stomach dropped, I didn’t feel grounded, but Grandpa held me, assuring me. I ran my fingers through my hair, and it was a little bit thinner, and I was more tired than I had been only a few moments earlier. 

“Somedays do you just feel like staying in bed the whole day?” I asked.

“Yes, but you’re a man now. You understand your responsibility to your family. Things aren’t about you like when you were a child. You’re still important but you care more about how you can support others. That will drive you onward. It’s not easy.”

A beige house on a hill was on my right, a little boy running around who looked a bit like me. I felt the urge to run and play with him. Then I saw myself, maybe 40 years old looking on. My face was tired but there was unfiltered pride and joy painted on it. “Elijah, don’t go too close to the road.”

The road curved and I looked behind at the beige house. I had to squint harder at things that were once clear. Life was always like that; each phase bringing new riddles, sorrows, and joy. I stumbled. Grandpa caught me in his arms. My back ached.

“You have all the strength of those who came before you. All your grandmas and grandpas, your mom and dad. You’ll stumble now and then, but just remember you came from a long line of strong people.”

My steps echoed; the road became desolate. I coughed and my stomach hurt. Pain shot through my ribs. I ran my hand through my face and felt wrinkles and lines that hadn’t been there before.

“You’re older than I ever got to be. Each day is a blessing.” Grandpa beamed.  

At the end of the street was a towering Victorian mansion with purple turrets. In the large open driveway sat a motorcycle, a Model T, a baby blue Ford pickup, a Volare, and other assorted vehicles. Off to the side a herd of horses grazed, with old Aunt May in her riding gear standing by.

A man was lying under the pickup truck, changing its oil. 

“Is that the truck dad always talked about?” 

He smiled that warm, welcoming smile. “Looks like Grandpa Gilbert is helping me out with it.” 

We ascended the three steps on the porch. Aromatic pumpkin pie and roasting turkey emanated from the open front door. I stepped in. 

All around me were family members laughing and telling stories. A man in a faded blue jacket with a starshaped medal stood in the back. He stroked his long white scraggly goatee, studying me. I recognized him from an old photo, Elijah.

“I named my son after you,” I yelled across the cacophony of jubilation. 

A wry smile formed in the corner of his mouth, and he nodded. Grandpa walked into another room of the house, and I turned to a group sitting in chairs. There was dad! He pulled up an empty chair for me and said, “Good on you for making it home. This Thanksgiving is for you!” 

Tears swelled in my eyes, but I wasn’t sad, I was elated. 

“I bet you wish you had a little more time on your journey, but don’t worry, we all felt that way,” he said. 

I hugged him, like I wish I could’ve all those years after he was gone. 

“Join me and catch me up once you’re done looking around. There are a lot of people who want to meet you.”

“Okay, dad,” I said. Different parts of the house had various accents and languages. Tittering Swedish came from the kitchen, I poked my head in and there were my two Swedish Aunts, my Grandpa Qvist, and my mom cackling over sweet cups of Gløgg. Grandpa Qvist’s beaming blue eyes, as deep as the sky, sparkled. He handed me a cup of Gløgg.

“Turkey’s almost done,” Mom announced. 

“Mom, will my wife be joining us?”

“No, she’s still got a way to go, but she misses you. Time is a strange thing here; she’ll join you soon. Behind us are rows of houses with all your friends and their families. You’re welcome to visit them any time.”

Grandpa Qvist put his hand on my shoulder. “Welcome home, you’re going to like this place.”