It used to be that the main street leading from Rt-170 to our house on Gulf was a thoroughfare of complexes, warehouses and meaningless industry. But now it’s something more. Now it’s a passageway. For some it’s the passageway that leads from one major road to the next. For others it’s the space in between here and there. But for me it’s the passage from one world to the next. It’s the gateway to my home, and the entry into my land of solace. It’s the passage from what’s “out there” to what’s “in here”. It’s the entrance to a land of love, and of debates, a land of hope… and of growth. It’s the passage to a land where my Queen awaits me and my little Princess dances. It’s the passage to the Red Station, our home away from all that we’ve since called “home”.
It’s those around us that make this place a place of significance. Here, our little one continues to flourish and grow. She has long since discovered the wonder of existence. And now she is plagued with the obstinate power of discovery. It holds her, keeps her from sleeping and drags her eyes to every corner of the place. She rolls everywhere she can, but her mobility seems more an accidental side effect of dangerously focused play than any intentional exploration. Her playtime is almost always colored by squeals, sputters, screams, babbles, kicks and clapping. She digs deep into her overturned toy-basket to rediscover old treasures. While she drinks milk from her bottle, she examines, with careful consideration, her fingers and hands. Her feet and toes are no less a wonder to her mouth. Her sippy cup is her new best friend; she has learned quickly to drink water from it.
These experiences are her joy, but they are our delight. It’s what makes Red Station a home, instead of a house. It’s her mother’s love—both for her and for her father—that fills me with joy. It’s the love of this place that makes the portal through Paige more than a four-lane road. It’s what makes the industrial barrenness beautiful to me.
