Though we are not shutting the door on Manderley completely, I grieve for the momentary loss and for the Linda who surfaced on the land. We will spend a few days with our children and grandchildren before heading home. As we travel across the prairie Gerry notices that we are both looking at every farm house we pass and comments on it. We smile at each other. We are both grieving in our own way.
The quest will continue and those discussions will come in time, but just now I sit quietly in the passenger seat of our Ford Escape and drink in the prairie with my eyes. In the distance, if I look hard enough and wish strongly enough, I can catch a glimpse of Linda standing in the middle of a wheat field. She feels no stress, her body carries no pain, and she is content.
We arrive home after a long and tiring day on the road; and this morning I wake to the familiar pain in my neck and shoulder. I throw open the bedroom window and hear birds, reminiscent of that morning at Manderley, yet a weak comparison to the prairie choir that sang for us near the marsh. A plane flying overhead and the distant drone of Sunday at the race track assaults the morning quiet.
Last night I dreamed I was at Manderley again; tomorrow I will head back to my office. Today, I wonder what lies ahead.