The Class C RV had been parked behind the five-room motor lodge in Des Moines, New Mexico for years, its paint faded by sun and snow, its tires resting in the dust of a life that never quite hit the road. It was bought brand new in 2015 by my aunt’s cousin, but it was my Aunt who saw its true potential. She had dreams of traveling the country in it—of waking up to new skylines and chasing sunsets across state lines. But instead, the RV became a quiet fixture behind her motel, a shelter during snowstorms, a guest room for stranded travelers, and a symbol of the life she built in that small town.
When she passed away in April, everything changed.
Grief is strange. It doesn’t arrive all at once—it trickles in through the silence of her empty rooms, the scent of her favorite perfume still lingering in the bathroom, the half-finished craft projects on her worktable. Sorting through her things felt like walking through a museum curated by love and memory. I found boxes of beads, scraps of fabric, old motel guest logs, and a drawer full of handwritten notes—some practical, some poetic. She had a way of turning the ordinary into something extraordinary, whether it was a broken lamp transformed into a sculpture or a forgotten trinket given new life as art.
Writing her obituary was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. How do you sum up a life like hers in a few paragraphs? I tried to capture her spirit—the way she made strangers feel like family, the way she could fix anything with duct tape and imagination, the way she saw beauty in the overlooked. Her eulogy was even harder. I stood in front of the family that was left behind, voice trembling, heart heavy, and spoke of the woman who taught me that adventure wasn’t always about distance—it was about perspective.
One of my fondest memories is our last trip together. We took my Jeep and drove through Shiprock, hiked the alien landscapes of the Bisti Badlands, and wound our way into the southwest corner of Colorado. In Silverton and Telluride, we ventured onto trails that climbed into the Alpine tundra, where ice and snow clung to the ground even in summer. The views were breathtaking—raw, untouched, and humbling. We crossed Medano Pass into the Great Sand Dunes National Monument, seeing the dunes from a vantage point few ever reach. That trip was my Aunt in her purest form: curious, fearless, and always seeking the road less traveled.
After the funeral, I went back to the motel and walked out back and stood beside the RV. It felt like she was still there, just inside, prepping for the next trip. I climbed in, sat in the driver’s seat, and knew what I had to do.
I drove it home to North Carolina.
The journey east was long and quiet. I passed through Texas, Arkansas, Tennessee—each mile a meditation, each rest stop a moment to breathe. I thought about her constantly. About the way she’d narrate road trips like a travel show host, about her laugh echoing through canyon walls, about the way she’d always find the perfect rock to take home as a souvenir.
Now the RV sits in my driveway, awaiting its next trip. But one thing’s certain: it’s more than a vehicle. It’s a vessel of memory, of grief, of love, and of a woman who taught me how to see the world with wonder.
And it’s finally home.
1 comment:
Beautiful
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