One Little Moment

by thatsoccercoach

Summary:

After the drought, what does it mean to come home? Are all things new? What is the same?

Notes:

I haven't written anything new in a hot minute! Even my other "new" fic has been sitting in my drafts for almost a year. I have been wondering if/how I would ever continue where Plover left off. Plover was based on a book (as was BPT) and I never cared for the story that came next! What would I write if I were in charge? Today, minutes before I started work (FYI, I 100000% hate what my job has become now and it makes me want to scream every day, so that's a new kind of inspiration, I suppose) I started rambling and it became a prologue, which morphed into an outline, which grew into a chapter. So now you have the first bit for yourself! My hope is that it brings you a tiny bit of relief in the midst of this time of tumult.

The title is a quote from a book later on in the series that inspired this work. "And that's the way life is. Something happens...one little moment in time. If you're lucky, you have a chance to make things better. Don't let it pass."

Chapter 1: Prologue

I had thought once that we could return home and everything would be the same. The longer we had stayed in Maine, the more I came to realize that couldn’t be so. We were all changed. While I would have thought that a terrible thing before, I realized now that it was just life.

The land itself had undergone a transformation. We had watched our lush fields wither in spite of Da’s work. We had seen the scars left by drought and then by fire. Though the creek ran again and there was water in the pond, we returned to a different land.

Our neighbors were different too. There were people in town who were missing; moved on to other land where we’d not see them again. There were letters from Jenny and Ian saying they were well, telling of their plans, plans to come back home to the prairie.

We were different as well, though that was harder to see. My mother, Claire, says it is often difficult to see clearly what is closest to you. She says this when she’s spoken harshly or foolishly to Da or he to her.

Physically, it is simple to see the changes. Willie grew so much it’s as if the sea water and sunshine caused him to sprout. The hem of his pants hovers far above his bony ankles and his shirtsleeves  are short as well. His coppery hair is lightened by the sun and freckles sprinkle his face. I suppose I am taller too, though none so much as Willie. And Da, his face looks more tired and there are new furrows in his brow, but he is quicker to smile now and the edges of his eyes crinkle with joy, especially when he looks at Claire. She is the one who changed the most, even before the bairn grew enough to see. The way she carried herself and how her eyes seemed to look both far away and dreamy while at the same time seeing straight to your soul if she looked at you. 

There are changes you can’t see, too. Or maybe you can see them somehow, but not with your eyes. Where we have been, what we have experienced, has changed us all in invisible ways. Willie learned, barely, how to read. We both know now, my brother and I, what it is to be kissed by the mist of a crashing wave. Claire knows what it is to come home instead of just returning to the place she once lived.

I suppose much of this sounds melancholy, but I don’t mean it as such. Da says that it’s tradition, telling these tales. That Scots never forget their past and are born story-tellers. My mother says that stories, memories, and dreams are how we bridge the past and present; how we connect in time and space.

Whatever these changes are, they’re part of a story. Each bit, a piece of who we were and who we are now. Our story.