It occurred to me that the summer will be the 12th since my move from the "big city" to a small town. It doesn't seem like that much time could have passed. (Isn't that what people always say?) This is particularly true because up until today it felt like I was still a new arrival in town. That my home was still just moved into. And that the deep roots that I had were elsewhere.
Truth be told, the family roots of elders have long since slipped away. Only peers are left and their children and grandchildren. Not that they aren't important, but they aren't the older generation who knew me from birth as a daughter, niece or granddaughter. The ones whose memories extended far back to a time that shaped them and was so different than the one into which I appeared.
But today it became clear that somehow, while missing the roots that were gone, I have put down roots here. While there are many ways to know you are rooted, the one that got my attention was that someone I knew, liked, respected and cared about, lost a parent. An elder. Before today such emails came from mostly family and long-time friends in places I'd been from. Today, the email came from where I live now.
While it is not possible to recapture roots that are lost, having new ones and the belonging they imply, feels good, despite the sadness for the loss of an elder I never met.
