Sometimes I think living so far away from family is a bad thing. I told my husband if we lived closer to mom I would stop in for coffee on a Sunday morning and be back home in time for breakfast. I would drop by for the finale of American Idol then disappear into the night to crawl into my own bed for sleep. My visits would be short and sweet yet frequent and fun. If I lived closer.
But, I don’t. So, visits are planned, plotted, scheduled and saved up. Dates on a calendar on circled; reservations for travel are made. Lists are drafted and rewritten; finalized and committed to memory. Grocery shopping. Packing. Pet sitters. Prepping for visits is like planning for war. Do we have everything? There’s always something forgotten, left behind – either coming or going.
May seems to be my mother’s month to visit. For the last two years it has worked out that she arrives in time for my arrival at the finish line of the Just Cause walk. She begins her journey nearly 200 miles away. When her bus pulls away from the station in Maine I plod through the streets of Concord MA, working my way to Bolton, a mere 20 miles away. When she arrives in Boston I am at a bed and breakfast resting my feet and having lunch. When she gets to Bolton I am being serenaded by snakes and other slithering things at Animal Adventures. At this point I’m only a half mile away. The final 880 yards feel like forever. One foot in front of the other…until finally, finally it is the middle of May and my mother is with me.