After I’ve graded the final assignment from the senior class, I tell myself. Then I’ll read over the contract in detail and give them my reply.
What also happened this morning is that the principal of Hope High asked if I wanted a permanent position. I told him no out of instinct. It’s what I always say. But she insisted I take some time to think about it.
I don’t need to think about it. It’s time to move on. I’ve got a new position lined up, a beachfront property, and the freedom to live life on my own terms.
And yet, it feels like I have nothing.
All or nothing.
Joel’s words still haunt me. It seems like I have it all, but why does my heart feel empty? One great big nothingness.
I let out a long sigh. There’s no point going over this again. I’ve barely seen Joel since we got back from camp, and every time I think I’ve erased the memory of him from my mind, it jumps back vividly. Usually when I’m lying in bed alone. It’s all too easy to remember his hard body, his soft kisses, the way he made me come undone in the best way. But most of all, how safe I felt with him. How reliable he was the entire camping trip, how we worked together like a team. He was dependable and solid and seemed to know what I needed without having to ask, both in and out of the bedroom, or cabin.
I smile at the memory of our night together. The heated passion that made us both lose control in the best, naughtiest way. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the scent of pine wood, the soft patter of rain against the cabin window, the jolt of pleasure as Joel slid inside me…
A sudden beeping from the kitchen has my eyes flying open. I’m not in a cabin with Joel, I’m alone in my dark apartment, and the fridge is beeping at me because I didn’t close it properly, and it’s letting me know the half a carton of milk and block of cheese that are the only items in there will go bad if I don’t close it.
I shut the fridge door, making sure it catches this time, and head back to the living room. There’s no point thinking about the past. I have a future ahead of me, a new destination. All I need to do is grade these final assignments, and I can start making plans.
I hit play on the first video, and as a shaking shot of Pine Creek Camp comes into view. I snag a slice of pizza and sit back on the couch to watch.
An hour later, the pizza is long gone, and I’ve watched three videos and taken copious notes. So far everyone has passed, but I’ve not given out any top grades. The interviews are fine, but on the dull side.
I stifle a yawn as I check the time on my phone. There’s time for one more tonight. The next in the folder is Dana’s. I smile when I see her name and the name of the video. “The Nature of Permanence.”
I hit play and pick up my notebook. I’ve memorized the score criteria by now, and I sit back with my notebook and pen at the ready.
It opens with wide shots of the mountains in motion. She must have been filming from the mini-bus on our way to the camp.
There are slow pans and natural sounds layered with soft music. A voice comes in, scratchy but confident. An older woman’s voice describing what first drew her to the mountain.
The camera shows the woman feeding her chickens and collecting rainwater from her homemade irrigation system.
A man’s voice joins her, and we meet her husband, Dave. They talk about how they met. How he came for the summer to take a sabbatical from his corporate New York job. And how meeting Marge changed the course of his life.
The video moves to the Pine Creek buildings and the caretaker slicing up a fallen tree with his chainsaw. We hear his voice over shots of him quietly working around the camp. “I stayed longer than I planned.”
Next, there’s an interview with the indigenous liaison and footage of him walking through the woods. “The land holds memory.”
He stops by an ancient oak tree. “People put roots in the land. Where they decide to put their roots can change the entire landscape.”
As I watch the video, a strange feeling begins in the pit of my stomach. A tingling sensation that moves up and through my body until the tiny hairs on my arms are standing on end.
We come back to the couple, Marge and Dave. Their arms are around each other, and they stand together as if propping each other up. They are weather-beaten, their smiling faces showing creases of a life well lived.
“We chose less over more, and we chose each other.”
It finishes on shots of the mountain, wide vistas, and well-worn paths. Marge’s voice narrates the ending.
“Some places feel temporary until you let yourself belong to them. I used to think home was something you moved through. Now I think it’s something you decide.”
The credits roll and instead of music is the gentle rustle of leaves, rain hitting the ground, and other sounds of the earth. Then the video ends.
I sit there for a long time, on the edge of my seat, staring at the screen. Dana didn’t make that video for me, and yet, it speaks straight to the nothingness in my chest. I’ve been teaching the students to tell stories of belonging and yet refusing to belong myself.
I move on because it’s what I’ve always done. I grew up moving from home to home. I saw my mother pack up our few belongings every time Dad got a new posting. She would sing as she put my toys in boxes, telling me about the next adventure we were going on. I loved those times with my mom. She was happy. The unboxing at the other end was always fun. When we got to our new house, often in the family quarters on base, we’d race around the house choosing where to put our things.
But there was a big difference that I’m only starting to realize. Mom had me and Dad. We were her home, so maybe it didn’t matter to her where we lived.
