Homecoming

by Suzanne Aubin

I spotted them first in the crowd. They looked pale under the bluish fluorescent light, leaning against the railing in the very front row. I couldn't believe both of my parents, at their age, had come to the airport. We'd not seen each other for three years, and they’d been spared my slow graying process. They had always been so proud of my glistening red hair but now they kept their shock private.

The luggage was late, as usual, but this time I was aware of every passing minute, watching them hopelessly looking for a place to sit in the pushing and jostling crowd. Later, my mother tucked her hand in the crook of my elbow and came to a full stop to negotiate the curb. I kept my pace in check. She used to say Dad always headed out like caribou, and she could never follow him. Now he, too, had slowed down.

They had nevertheless greeted me at the airport like a homecoming queen and driven me home in their brand new car. They served my favorite supper at 9:00 p.m., the time when they usually did their crossword puzzles before bed.

I opened my suitcase for them and lifted a large box of slightly bruised peaches, freshly picked and still fragrant from the sunny orchards of home. I will always remember this scene: both of them at the table, my mother peeling and culling the golden fruit with a sharp knife, leaning towards my dad as in sweet conspiracy. He, inhaling the fruit one wedge after the other, juice dripping down his chin, a boyish look on his face calling out with a chuckle: ``Ca, ma fille, c'est une richesse!'' (That, my girl, is real wealth).

Suzanne:  Native of Québec City, I live in British Columbia where I teach languages, do translations and write in my spare time. I have run a monthly column in a national aviation newspaper and published free-lance articles in "Okanagan Life," a B.C. magazine. My latest publications include the Ocotober '06 issue of BluePrint Review, the November 16 issue of the Salomé Magazine and the October ’06 update of Flash Flood Fiction.  Contact Suzanne.