THE CITY POND
Gravel kicked against the car as we crawled around the hard bend in the drive, which now seemed much too short. It was supposed to hug the Homeplace and the great lawn, but everything shrunk under rain-heavy clouds. Grandpa’s barn, once strong and tall, slumped with the pressure of time, the cedar walls carved deeply with wrinkles. We were the last to arrive.
We walked to the backdoor, where the humidity made the jamb stick hard. My father pressed his shoulder into the center mullion as he turned the knob, and the door gave up, announcing us with a screech and shudder.
—Well, heeeeeeeeeeey!
My aunt's familiar trill hung in the air as we traded the damp morning chill for the staid heat of the kitchen. The bitter aroma of brewing coffee stifled the house’s natural musk hidden deep within the walls, and the remnants of the morning’s meal sat stacked next to the sink. We shuffled by the low, round dining table and through the archway into the center of the Homeplace.
My mother’s siblings sat across the living room, their spouses scattered, my cousins clustered in pockets by age. A collection of family friends and neighbors stood here and there, trading stories. Most of them stood as we entered, save for Lavinia and her brother Arthur.
—Well, I'll be! Y’all, come on in. Been worried the construction on Nine'd got you bad.
My uncle’s words dripped and dipped, his metre viscous. The room returned to tight conversations as my father made his way through the crowd to the empty cushion next to Arthur, where they settled into the cartographic repartee of the mid-aged Southern male.
—What route’d y’all take?
—Oh, Six-Oh-One to Two-Eighteen. I got nothin’ to do with Eighty-Five this time a’day. Y’all come up Nine most the way?
—Boy, I hear that. Nine won’t bad ‘til you started skimmin' traffic off the bypass overflow.
They continued their dance of details, while my mother and Lavinia spoke quietly in the non-sequitur fashion of sisterly understanding.
—Oh, its so good to see you!
—Giiiiirl, I have had a time gettin’ up this way this mornin’. I don't have to tell you what the damp does to my knees.
—Have you heard from Roger this week?
The cousins and I, in the meantime, rocked on heels, nodded, and warmed gradually into memory and recognition. Ages, years, schools, and plans were repeated, and I entered into exchange with the teenaged contingent.
More coffee was brewed and poured, water boiled for tea, and we ate to keep our hands and mouths busy. Hours passed, or maybe minutes, and my mother, sensing that most in the room were pushing the bounds of meaningful conversation, suggested that we make our way.
We drove to the City Pond. We filed out and filled the benches where each generation had spent its share of afternoons fishing off the dam with Grandpa. Here we found ourselves made comfortable, huddled in the past, and we spoke of times we'd begged off the lines to run wild along the water’s edge.