I sit on the bed looking at the milk white and blue marbled glass blown vase. The fragile glass flowers that are sitting about the rocks bring back the memories of a wonderful trip to Mexico we took with my grandparents when I was eight years old. How can it be so long ago since we have been home and seem like just yesterday? Memories flood my mind of times spent in the house set near the row of trees on the pallet of black dirt.
We have been driving for three days. The kids are restless in the truck from tired butts. I turn off the paved highway onto the dirt road, only one and quarter more miles. The butterflies start, and now I am antsy. I think I have answered the question, "Are we almost there yet?" for the last time.
The gravel road is so dry, they must not have had any rain lately. The fields are growing, blooming with the big yellow and black sunflowers while the blue blossoms are appearing on the pinto beans. It is halfway until harvest time.
The last half-mile, down the driveway was the worst. The house looks just like I remember in my dreams. The quanset, barn, grain bins and the fields, nothing has changed. We pull up to the garage; grandma and grandpa come out of the side door. Everyone piles out of the truck to fight for the hugs and kisses that were missed in the last year since we have been home.
Grandma and grandpa still look as young as they did when I was a little girl making that same trip with my parents. The house hasn't changed; we go up the stairs into the kitchen with the...