50 51 THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW When the Planes Stopped Flying by Grace Thornsbury My parents tell me that the world was suddenly quiet after 9/11 because the planes stopped flying. It was an absence they never would have noticed otherwise; something they had always known had vanished. There was screaming happening somewhere, the sound of buildings creaking, sirens calling. A piece of tape torn, a MISSING poster stuck to a glass window. Drawers and closet doors opening, suitcases hastily packed and zipped, their wheels thumping down flights of stairs. But in a little townhouse in Maryland, my parents were looking at the sky and hearing it empty. Some generations never heard planes. But for a while now, each generation has. Many of them have heard planes and felt fear. But my parents were not hearing them, and they were afraid. I see my mom with the TV on all morning, her one year old son napping, while she waits for my dad to call her from his office. He worked an hour from the Pentagon, so she went to pick him up. I don’t know what he had on the radio, whether his windows But perhaps home for me is more an event than a place. It’s the emotions and sensations I get with snow, and the memories it brings up. It may not matter where I am, because snow is the signal which tells me you’ve been here before. And then come the memories: late night walks in the neighborhood, washing dishes, puzzles, quarantine, and graduation. I can hold them like a snowball packed tightly, a million snowflakes rolled into one. A million memories rolled into one heart. I don’t think home is where the heart is; I think home is in our hearts. We carry it with us, and with us it changes. Growing, melting, shifting, home follows us through all seasons and all places. Every hour, every year, it changes. But that change doesn’t deny stability; it only means that home is a larger place than just four walls. Home crosses stateliness, borders, and oceans. Home is tremendous enough to fit perfectly inside our souls and hearts. So even in leaving Minnesota, I won’t truly leave home behind. I will keep it with me, tucked into my backpack and car door. It’ll stay stamped on each of my books, etched into my notebooks, whispered into my wardrobe. And when the next snow comes, I’ll be ready.
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