On Monday morning, the first day of the brand-new year, we pile in the car for the drive to the elephant sanctuary: Trullia, Grandma, Henry Jack, and me. We’re all bubbling with excitement, even Trullia.
It’s a short drive north, just ten miles, and we can hardly contain our smiles. We sing along with the radio, all of us car-dancing, the windows open and blowing our hair.
And finally . . . there it is. Looming like Oz.
“Oh,” breathes Grandma Violet when we see the sign: Room to Roam Elephant Sanctuary.
We get out of the car, walking all full of wonder and discovery, like Dorothy and the Scarecrow and the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion. I guess I’m Dorothy. Grandma’s the Lion, searching for the courage to be alone without Grandpa Bill. Henry Jack is the Scarecrow, but he already has a great brain behind that wrinkled face. And Trullia? Well, she’d be the Tin Man . . . maybe getting her heart. Finally.
“We’re off to see the elephants,” I sing to the tune from the Wizard of Oz movie. “The wonderful elephants of Us. Queenie Grace and Baby.”
Grandma and Trullia and Henry Jack play along, and we all skip as if we’re on the yellow brick road, heading for that beautiful city on the hill. Except there’s no wicked witch; no flying monkeys. Not anymore. All the fear is gone.
This place is so pretty: overflowing with leafy trees, explosions of brilliant flowers, lush green grass. It smells like Florida, but mixed in with a little bit of wild. Two huge red barns, some rainbow-painted buildings, plenty of room to graze and play. Lots of open land, spreading out as far as my eyes can see, leading to the edge of blue sky. Elephants are everywhere, dotting the horizon with gray. There are a few workers washing elephants, scrubbing them with big brushes in a water area that must be the elephant bath.
“Wow,” says Henry Jack. “This is like a retirement community for rich people. The best of the best. Maybe they even have their own swimming pools!”
“I bet they love it here,” I say.
“Wonder where they are?” Trullia says.
“What if we can’t recognize Queenie Grace?” I ask. “You know, like all the elephants look kind of alike?”
“Oh, we’ll recognize her, all right,” Grandma Violet says.
“And she’ll definitely know us,” Henry Jack adds. “She probably smells us already.”
And then, in a rush of pounding gray and swinging ears, there they are! Queenie Grace and her baby: both of them close to the same size, with the same soulful eyes. They stop, side by side, and meet our gazes, ears flapping in the same rhythm.
“Queenie Grace is just a little bit smaller than her baby,” Grandma Violet says.
“Just like you and me, Mom,” Trullia says. “And also like Lily and me. The baby’s always the tallest in this family, so it seems.”
Queenie Grace and her baby lock trunks for a minute, and we all laugh and clap.
“They’re hugging!” I say.
And then Queenie Grace plods straight to me, nuzzling my neck with her trunk. I kiss her on that long, searching, bristly-haired trunk. Who would have believed I’d ever kiss an elephant?
“Hi, Queenie Grace,” I say. “Sorry for getting you in trouble the other night. We shouldn’t have tried that running-away thing.”
“Yeah,” says Henry Jack. “I have to admit: that was a big mistake.”
“It’s all right.” My grandmother waves her hand. “Let the past be the past, bygones be bygones. Time to move forward. Plus, the big mistake somehow resulted in this good outcome.”
“You’re right,” Henry Jack says. “This is like the bright side of that night.”
“And mistakes are made to be forgiven, and forgotten,” Trullia says. “Lord knows I’ve made enough of them in my lifetime.”
Queenie Grace nudges her baby forward, as if to introduce her to us.
“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you.” I shake her trunk as if I’m shaking a human hand. “I’m Lily. My grandfather was Bill the Giant. He was Queenie Grace’s—your mother’s—owner. Her owner, her trainer, her mahout. Her favorite person in the world.”
The baby looks at me. Her eyes are so sweet. She lifts her trunk and she brushes it, soft as a smooch, across my cheek.
And then Queenie Grace kneels on the ground beside me.
“Is she praying?” I ask.
“No,” Grandma Violet says. “She wants to give you a ride.”
I don’t even have to think about it. I just scramble up onto Queenie Grace’s back, helped up by Trullia and Henry Jack and Grandma and a small ladder leaning against a fence. I settle in and grasp her skin, squeezing my knees against her. Queenie Grace begins to walk, slow and steady and sure, way around the sanctuary. She goes far; it’s like she’s giving me a tour. And I’m not one bit afraid! It feels as if this is where I belong: sitting on top of the world, riding Queenie Grace in this peaceful place. Birds chirp, and there are the sounds of elephants. No cars; no traffic. Just quiet, and nature, and relaxation. I roll along with the rhythm of her steps.
“It’s so beautiful here,” I say. “I like your new home.”
Queenie Grace’s ears flap as if she agrees.
She walks back toward our family: Grandma and Trullia and Henry Jack and Baby. Her ears flap like happy flags; I can actually feel the celebration and contentment in her body. It’s our own little parade, our own private big top. Our own “Step Right Up” moment.
“There’s no place like home, right?” I say to Queenie Grace. “I’ll be going home soon, too.”
But I wish I were staying longer than tomorrow. I don’t want to go. Not yet.