There comes a time when you have to go home, when the cries of birth, death and everything in between become too loud and insistent. An empty chair at the family table is waiting for you. They have set a plate in the usual spot, silver lies engraved with your initials, and a polished glass anticipates their bitter wine.
It doesn’t matter how you get there. By plane or bus, rail if you are lucky. No matter how you cross, there are always mountains blocking the way, and security demanding proof of your existence. Countless miles of fractured farmland and failing towns only slow down the connections to blood and genetics.
You were the pioneer. Why is it so hard to understand? Just a generation back they arrived on ships after traveling the world and surviving two World Wars. A whole continent unfurls west of the narrow strip of land where most of your people set claims.
You wanted to see it all for yourself. You headed west.
But you stayed away, and that was the problem.
When they demand your reasons, words drop uselessly to the floor. How can you describe to them what lies beyond the high ridges when they won’t believe in other lives. Perhaps there is safety in numbers, but you refuse to stand in line for an inheritance that never comes.
A life spent waiting for someone else to decide is not for you. You can only promise to return for a visit.
And then you head west again over the generational divide and down into valleys where the flat land spreads like a reaching hand, unfettered by kin or conqueror.