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The blue suitcase is open and ready, the right clothes selected weeks before are color-coordinated and mindful of the season. Underwear, skirts, pants, and blouses are each impeccably folded to minimize unwanted wrinkles. It is summer, and only linen and cotton will make it through the wet and humid weather awaiting me. Shoes chosen to harmonize with the ensembles are in soft, cloth carriers. The travel iron has found its place next to the special bag containing the lotions, shampoos and other sundries. This essential task achieved, I pause and think of my children I will see in less than twenty-four hours; an unanticipated tear rolls down my cheek. I have not seen my granddaughter in over a year; photos do not capture subtle changes. Will she and the others like the presents I selected? Some new, some old and treasured items, each holding meaning or memories important solely to me are placed with care on top of the clothing where nothing will disturb them. I intend to open the suitcase and distribute each gift upon arrival. All is done and in order; I am satisfied.
The circuitous zipper refuses to join forces with the perfection of this moment; nothing I do will budge this contraption. I cannot close the suitcase, and departure time is approaching. Another one is fetched from the storage area in the garage, and in a fury the zipper of this old plaid, dusty suitcase is tested. Hallelujah, it works! Items are rapidly tossed in, and the zipper is closed. Time to go!
The security personnel at the Phoenix airport overlook my tardiness. All is well, I locate my gate, and soon enough it is boarding time. The airplane is not full, I find my seat and a pillow, I make myself comfortable – the window seat will allow me to watch the clouds.
I dream, and, soon, standing in the aisle, I see the gentle face of a young stewardess; she is telling me it is time to wake up. I look around and discover the other passengers have disembarked. I am the only one left. The pilot has delivered me to Atlanta.
As I remove the belongings stored by my feet, I notice to my horror I am wearing mismatched shoes. There is no time to worry. Assured I will make a fashion statement, I walk down the breezeway, stagger toward an open area, and soon enough am on solid ground. I feel every eye looking at my feet – my shoes are not only different colors, the heels are not the same height. How did I not notice this at home? Doing an impression of complete control, I hobble in the direction of the baggage claim. As the carousel turns, my head spins, trying to remember if I packed more shoes. I find my suitcase. First things first, I must find a pair of shoes. This done, I change and toss the odd pair into the suitcase. I start walking toward the exit. The door opens, and a gust of wind makes a decisive attempt to motivate me toward a steady but light rain.
I stop to regain my land feet and assess the direction I should take. I find myself greeted by the lush landscape displaying Georgia’s red clay mixed with lots of large green and shiny leaves and a multitude of colorful, ground-level flowers; above all this the magnolias are in bloom. Never have I seen such a display in the desert. The pleasant and well-manicured border welcomes me while it flanks the north side of the Atlanta airport; suddenly I feel a smile coming on. The sky is gray, the humidity extreme and a bit overwhelming; I come from a dry climate. Magic brings the rain to a stop, a welcomed and hospitable sign.
Obtaining and driving a rented car is easy enough; I communicate with the GPS by inserting the address. Global Positioning System, what a mouthful! Traffic is cooperating, and I know where I am going.
I believe only a few minutes have passed when I see her. She is as tall as the cypresses that line her driveway studded with black rocks from the south of Georgia. Slender like the grass of the nearby marshland, she will always be able to bend with the winds of life. I can see the brown in the eyes large enough to see infinity. She stands smiling, personifying the name of a town, waiting…waiting for me. The majesty of the red earth is embedded in her essence. Her posture shows strength that only time can carve. The moccasins purchased in Arizona last year cushion her feet and her path, I am sure. She bounces when she decides it is time to run toward me and envelop me with her arms.
Perhaps it was the wind which brought passion to her laughter of pandemic proportions. Conceivably she received this unique heredity from her mother. I am confident with what I see – as with Alice and the looking glass, she expresses beauty without parade or fanfare. In the canyons of her soul I sense the markings of wind and fire, and I know time will sand and polish these smooth. The short distance separating us is eliminated as she dashes toward me. Smiling at her is all I can do as I attempt to shield the tears blurring my vision.
I perceive a certain something that reminds me of who I am, and, perhaps, if I look into my own mirror, I will see what she sees. I observe a self-assured girl of fifteen. She pulls on the white ribbon tying her long hair, and now the face looking at me is my granddaughter Sedona – the name of the town I left only hours ago.
Eveline Horelle Dailey, quick to laughter and tears, used interior design to pay the bills. A volcano within exposes words and stories to capture human nature and to explore her personal potential, she paints when a canvas calls for it, and weaves when the rhythm of the loom demands attention. French brings in passion for the possible, and the challenge often is to give shape in English to decoded concepts.
Not afraid to cross the bridge at the center of her mind, she writes for those with similar intellect. Most of her comfortable inspirations come from nature and people and their stories, each bringing color and texture to her palette.