The matrilineal wave

And so completes the annual family journey to our mother’s roots in which brother and sister take the lead. We came earlier this year. Each day there was another discovery. Another connection. Another sense of knowing. Of familiarity. Of belonging. Standing on tradition. Making our own. Popcorn crunching. Sticky fingers and knees from s’mores on the grill. Pineapple mahogany beds and clam chowder. Creaky wood floors and wistful sea air. The Wharf on a rainy day. Grilled cheese with leftover bread from yesterdays sandwiches at the beach. Our ancient farting dog who keeps climbing the old wooden staircase despite her failing hips. Yoda in animated form as we adapt their Star Wars with ours. Tucking their intertwined sandy limbs under the covers as they surrender to a much-needed slumber.

Driving by our grandmothers house, our great aunts house, our mothers house. The matrilineal wave is strong like the tide we all body surfed together. Pulling and lulling us in for one more story, one more memory, one more tomorrow. That moment when you realize the freckled little girl within you is now the adult in the room. When you are the keeper of the sweet dreams and the golden years. The giver of the medicine and the reminders. Collecting rocks that look like your nephews surfboard. Finding pathways that weren’t there before or at least that we didn’t see.

A sail boat in the distance provides a nod to a simpler time. The history stabs at our sides, there is a bittersweet tenderness and our hearts are heavy with the past. Of roots and beach roses. Of Hanging Rock and seaweed. Of Queen Anne’s Lace and the bend in the road. These are the days. The days in which we try to heal and we hope to give our children the gift and safety of being themselves in a place that lives in each of us. This is the next generation. This is home.