This morning we flew back home, crossing the continent from Portland, Maine to Portland, Oregon.
We said goodbye to Maine as the sun rose all pink and orange over the Atlantic.
I watched it from the plane window, the line of flame separating sea from sky.
My eyes traced the winding coast line.
Ribbons of gauzy fog wound here and there among the blue-green trees of the Maine woods.
Minutes later God covered it all up with a downy, white, comforter of clouds.
I turned away from the window, and set my face toward home.
But there, beneath that downy blanket, I left a piece of my heart
tucked safe and cozy along with the memories
of downeast accents like the one that Mama had traces of ‘til the day she died,
of lobster dinners and Maine blueberry pancake breakfasts, (and pie, oh my, that pie!),
of colonial houses and brick sidewalks,
of expressions just like Mama’s seen in my aunt’s face,
of cousins reconnected with after years apart,
of crashing waves on sandy beaches,
the light house in the distance the very same one we had etched into Mama’s gravestone,
of happy laughter with my sister as we shared the journey,
walking there in the places of our Mama’s beginnings.