I’m reblogging this entry. It’s one of the favorite pieces I’ve written.
A FAMILY BIVOUAC
It is a hot summer day, and a bright Michigan sun is bearing down upon our green car with its New Hampshire license plates. We are nearing Detroit––my husband and I and our son and two daughters. Our three-year-old is crying because she is weary of riding.
“Hush, Baby, we’ll soon be home,” I say soothingly.
“We don’t have a home,” she replies.
We do have a home; it is the boundary of love around our family. Home is the inside of a car as we travel across the United States, with orders for a new assignment. It is the inside of a jet airplane, winging its way across the Atlantic. It is a one-room motel where we wait for a house. How can I tell my child this, when words like hobbyhorse, Mama’s rocker, crib and walls-painted-blue are what she remembers about…
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