Sunday, February 14, 2021
I stood before the microwave, watching a bowl of chocolate chips swirl before removing it and stirring the mixture until smooth. The kitchen held the stillness of another Valentine’s Day spent in solitude.
I had a long week ahead. Between shifts at Granby Public Library and Cossitt Library, I was taking classes full-time toward my library science degree. That winter brought more fog than snow. Cold air clung to our ankles while a haze drifted into the treetops. I felt restless for something I longed for but could not yet name.
With a napkin, I blotted the chocolate that had landed on my sweatshirt and dipped a fresh strawberry into the bowl until it was thoroughly coated. It was sweet, but it could not quiet the ache of being alone.
Saturday, February 17, 2024
The dressing room bustled. My mom waited just outside as I slid the confection of a wedding dress over my shoulders. We were in a boutique in Westport, just south of where I was working as Children’s Librarian at Ridgefield Library. It was a lovely place to live, but I deeply missed my life in the Farmington Valley.
The moment was bittersweet. My nonna had passed away just weeks before, and grief still hung heavily over our family. Pushing past my nerves, I stepped onto the pedestal before an enormous mirror. My mom smiled behind me and the bridal consultant must have seen it on my face. This was the dress.
We ordered it and returned to my apartment, where my mom slept on the pull-out couch in the living room. We watched television together, as we had for years before I moved away. Time had passed so quietly that I was sometimes disoriented by the changes it left behind.
Someday in February 2026 (Yet to Come)
I lock the doors at Cossitt Library and walk with my coworkers to our cars in the dark. I don’t know what the weather will be or which coat I’ll wear, but I know I’ll start my car and drive homeward.
For now, home is back with my parents while we search for a house of our own in Granby. I’ll travel down East Street past leafless trees and gentle hills, knowing my baby waits just beyond. Our son, James, will be six months old. My mom might be making chicken, soup or pasta. I’ll step inside, see my parents holding him, and hear my husband greeting me from upstairs. The night will hold both familiarity and promise.
Looking back, I can see the markers of pause. These were moments when everything was quietly about to change. Writing helps me notice those moments rather than rush past them.
In future Drummer submissions, I hope to reflect on country life, seasonal rhythms and what it means to leave and return. Drawing inspiration from coming home to Granby, I plan to bring you articles that celebrate life in a small New England town.