The house looks the same.

We help Mom up the four steps to the porch, and Becky unlocks the door. Inside, light filters through lace curtains into the hall's dim cave. It smells the same.

I start to bring in bags from the car. Part of me wants to run upstairs and see my old room. But I'll have time.

"Mom, I want to go see the kids, and then I'll stop by with some groceries later."

"I can go get something."

"No, it's okay. I have a car."

The screen door shuts behind her. It isn't that warm, so I close the door.

"Let's find some sweaters and sit outside," Mom says. I hadn't thought about how she might be feeling cooped up, hadn't thought about her flower beds or her garden--way behind by now, a season lost.

I gather wraps from closets and drawers, and pick up some blankets, too. We settle into the chairs on the front porch.

"It's good to be back home."

I assent silently.

"How long will you be here?"

Moving day again. We're bringing Mom back to South Bend. She's finished her treatments, and the doctors think she's doing well. Her screens are clear.

This is the first time I've been home in seven years. We get all the bags into the car, and it isn't really that much.

"Mom, where do you want to sit?"

She's going to give me the front seat, and I'm going to decline. I get into the back of the little blue car, and she settles into the front, and Becky's all business.

Traffic is heavy and fierce as we drive the highway south toward Tacoma. We pass the car lots and body-repair shops, the malls and the malls and the malls. I've enjoyed my stay in the city, and now I'm remembering the less picturesque parts of normal life.

The cars thin out down toward Olympia, and then we turn off--head north to go west--into the woods.

It's been a month. We're close to May, and Mom is no close to better.

Letters come and go. I stay.

Becky and I are at the hospital, waiting to drive Mom back after her appointment.

"You don't have to stay."

"What do you mean? I want to stay."

"But you want to go."

I hear guilt. I don't know if that's what she means, but that's what I hear.

"I do, and I don't. I want to be here with you and Mom."

Her silence means, But you left us before, and I know that I will not be forgiven.

I stay. I knit and I stay.

Dear Misha,

This is bigger than a postcard. What can we say to each other? We've barely known each other for a few days--in person, at least. But I want to know.

Thank you for sending me your new mail address. I don't know how long it takes a letter to reach the States, but I hope this finds you well. And I hope that your mother is doing better.

That sounds very formal. I don't know what to say to you. We barely know each other, and yet I feel like I've known you for a hundred years. Now I sound--corny, I think that's the word. I will work on my english, but you must work on your spanish. Now I sound--bossy is the word I think. I'm not trying to be bossy.

I could tell you about autumn, or how much I'd like to see you again, and how crazy that sounds, and where? Really, I'd rather hear about you and your mother and your sister, about the light in Seattle and all the fish.

Please, if you get a chance, write to me. Let me read your voice.

With felicitations,

Sevario

Next, I pick up Lydia's envelope. It's thick, and when I open it, I find a handful of photographs.

The day balls up in my chest. A few deep breaths, and I'm able to look through them, reminders of home--my little house, the store, the harbor, a picture of Lydia and Alex, and one of a puppy. Hmmm…

Lydia's letter fills in some of the details. Alex has moved in with her, and they've gotten a puppy named Loki. Her story starts out so sweetly, and then she becomes Lydia, detailing the whining through the night, and the walking and the housebreaking, and pretty soon it will be chewing, and why did they name him Loki--what were they thinking? It's still sweet, but it's in Lydia's familiar way.

She asks how my mother is doing, and what it's like being home, or sort of home, or used-to-be home.

None of us ever really goes home to visit our families. I suppose it's the money, and the fact that we feel we need this cycle--a kind of desperation not to leave.

We're not a cult, but I guess some days we look like one.

She fills the pages with some more news.

Nilsa is keeping the store for you, although no one comes yet.

This is good. I don't know why I didn't think to ask Nilsa before I left. She helps me sometimes at the height of the season. If only I had enough business to keep her on all the time.

Not to the bakery, either. In the middle of summer, we tire of the tourists, but you know how slow this time of year goes.

I rest my hands in my lap, still holding the letter, and feel so lucky for everything I have.

The sun will sink below the buildings soon. I pick up Sevario's letter.

Henry's handwriting jumps to me from the page. His voice, as I know it.

How are you? It seems strange to think of you not in our house--to think of you somewhere I've never been. Sometimes, I forget that we've had lives before this.

He does not mention coming to see me. I thought he might, since we've both been saving money. I need to stop thinking.

It's a bright moment--a sunbreak as we say here--and I take a walk, look for a little park to sit. It's warm enough, as though fickle Spring has brought her bags and intends to stay. A day for feeling good.

And I have letters, a bonanza of letters--one from Lydia, one from Henry, and one from Sevario.

I open Lydia's first, and she talks of Kirkenes. It's still early for tourists, but she's enjoying the quiet and trying out a few new pastry tricks. She asks when I'll be coming back.

I feel so far away, as though I've traveled to a different life. I guess I have.

Next envelope, please.

Dear Misha,