Going Home

The black and blue Air Jordans come into my view, hanging from the powerline where they had found a home for as long as I can remember. “We’re almost there.” I think to myself as my heart rate begins to increase. I’m soon captivated by the familiar scenery of Inman, South Carolina; the red dirt, the dry grass killed by the sun, and the golden, orange sunset reminding me of what’s to come.

As we pull into the driveway, fear courses through my body. At fifteen years old, I have never had to say goodbye to someone I love. I didn’t know how. It was all foreign to me. Nevertheless, as I reach the front door, I take a moment and brace myself for what’s to come. When I open the door, I’m not greeted with your usual all-encompassing hug. Instead, I’m greeted with the painfully quiet sound of your house. “She’s resting,” Kelly tells me, her voice almost a whisper. I breathe a sigh of relief, not ready to see what cancer has done to you.

“Bellie,” my mom says as she knocks and slowly opens the bedroom door, “She’s up.” As I walk into the living room, I see you, or at least what cancer has left of you. You’re about fifty pounds lighter, drowning in your own clothes. Your once sun-kissed olive skin is gone,

replaced by a dull, grayish hue. Your eyes are sunken in, the usual tortoiseshell-framed glasses barely masking the dark circles that occupy your face. In the place of your blond layered bob sits a multi-colored, patterned silk head wrap doing its best to hide the effects of

chemo. As our eyes meet, you greet me with an almost-usual smile. I look around the room, searching for someone to break the silence, no one speaks. We all know what the future held, including you.

The next few days feel as if it’s our usual visit. We drink way too much coffee, stay in our pajamas longer than we should, and play the usual card games. The harsh reality hits me again each night as I watch you climb into bed, exhausted from the eight-hour days. The thing no one told me about cancer is that it gives you a visual life clock. Even if I try to ignore the signs, they are inevitable. I can see the life draining from your body, and not just in a physical manner either. The cancer is killing you physically, cognitively, emotionally, and spiritually.

On the last day of our visit, I sit on your old, gray leather couch. Sinking into the spot that has been worn down over the years by the people you invited into your home. You’re sitting in the recliner that’s claimed as “yours,” engaged in a conversation with my mom. Watching you, my mind becomes submerged with memories from before cancer seized your body. The little moments I shared with you. The deep, meaningful conversations about anything and anyone. Our countless hours spent playing Spot-It at your kitchen table. The numerous shopping sprees we went on every time my family came to town. Your boisterous laugh that filled any room you were in. The way you would spread the joy of Jesus with anyone you encountered. The things I would miss most.

“I’m not scared.” You speak softly, “I’m ready to go home.” Your words instantly snap me out of my trip down memory lane, I’m confounded. I have never heard anyone talk about death in that way. You had already accepted the next step before any of us were willing to let go. We leave later that night, saying our goodbyes before you head to bed. It all feels wrong, the fact that we all just left as you’re fast asleep. Despite it feeling that way, it’s what’s best. You won’t have to watch us leave and we won’t have to deal with the heartbreak of you

watching us.

A few months later, as I walk out of my room, I’m met with a painful look on my mom’s face, which reveals it all. Your wish to go home has come true.