Strains of The Dave Matthews Band can be heard over the whirl of the fan from the food dehydrator. We should have dried these apples days ago, but that is just the perfectionist in me coming out. I sit on the couch and act as his scribe, writing down the weight of every item we place on the kitchen scale, HAM radio- 7.2 lbs., cooking ware- 1.2 lbs. I interject my opinion, mostly out of worry, every few minutes as we sift through the mess of gear covering the floor. No, you don't need 15 batteries, take the lightest folding solar panel, don't forget your spices, you need quinoa to keep you healthy, leave the camping pillow here.
As he rummages through gear, my mind is drawn back to our childhood, the family picture on the wall makes it easy to remember what his face looked like then. Me, the nagging little sister, always wanting to be apart of his adventure. Him, the history buff and artistic older brother who would spend more time drawing you than talking to you. I use to sneak into his room to look at all of his "cool" stuff while he was at school. We would fight like crazy, but if I needed him to sleep on my floor because I was scared, he would. Now he sleeps in the living room of our one bedroom apartment.
I fill spice jars for him, salt, pepper, cumin, chili powder, cinnamon, vegeta, dried vegetable bouillon cubes, and explain the importance of each, reminding him to get the right nutrition so he doesn't get sick on the trail.
The woman he loves is here to spend a few days with him before he leaves for five months. As she makes a cup of tea he embraces her from the back, his hand searching for her belly as they giggle about an inside joke. It is hard to not fall in love with them falling in love. They are contagious.
He reminds us of what time we need to be at the airport on Saturday and I try to hold back my tears. I won't see him for five months. I haven't gone more than four days without seeing him in the past year and a half. He is is hiking the Tao Araroa trail in New Zealand.
As I fade into sleep, I look at the family picture on the wall. He is still the boy in the picture to me.
As he rummages through gear, my mind is drawn back to our childhood, the family picture on the wall makes it easy to remember what his face looked like then. Me, the nagging little sister, always wanting to be apart of his adventure. Him, the history buff and artistic older brother who would spend more time drawing you than talking to you. I use to sneak into his room to look at all of his "cool" stuff while he was at school. We would fight like crazy, but if I needed him to sleep on my floor because I was scared, he would. Now he sleeps in the living room of our one bedroom apartment.
I fill spice jars for him, salt, pepper, cumin, chili powder, cinnamon, vegeta, dried vegetable bouillon cubes, and explain the importance of each, reminding him to get the right nutrition so he doesn't get sick on the trail.
The woman he loves is here to spend a few days with him before he leaves for five months. As she makes a cup of tea he embraces her from the back, his hand searching for her belly as they giggle about an inside joke. It is hard to not fall in love with them falling in love. They are contagious.
He reminds us of what time we need to be at the airport on Saturday and I try to hold back my tears. I won't see him for five months. I haven't gone more than four days without seeing him in the past year and a half. He is is hiking the Tao Araroa trail in New Zealand.
As I fade into sleep, I look at the family picture on the wall. He is still the boy in the picture to me.
1 comment:
Christy. I love this. <3
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