I'm not sure where to begin.
My Sunday was spent, as expected, attending church in the morning- Ranger Weston decided to drop by and accompany me, despite not being much of one for God himself. He's been staying over, in Father's room- while he's in charge of coordinating search and rescue efforts, a whole lot more of that can be done remotely than I expected- the kitchen table has been taken over with maps and folders, folios and stray pencils and pens. He's very meticulous in keeping track of where has been visited in the woods.
No one really expected Father to show up at the church. It was after service, when everyone was filing out through the front doors: heavy, oak: carried down the river in a minor miracle during a historic bit of flooding in town. He was standing there, slightly off to the side, on the other side of the wrought-iron fence and gate, smiling sheepishly as the rain came down overhead.
Of course, Ranger Weston would have been the one to have his wits about him first- and he ran over, shouting. No one could believe it. He was dressed much the same as he always is, while driving out to the larger cities on a business trip: a crisp, collared shirt, and black slacks, slim fit: belt with the silver buckle fastened up front, etched in with the saint's prayer to whom he was born under.
There was a flurry of questioning, none of which he really answered- a bit dazed. He was clean, well kept, and looked as if he had just parked his car on the side of the road after the winding ride back, blinking to recollect his thoughts after zoning out on the long winding roads of asphalt giving way to dirt and gravel. It's a long way from Sawnbone to anywhere- and you can hardly stumble across it accidentally without going well out of your way- enough that you ought to realize something is amiss, navigationally.
Supper was a bit of a crowded affair- Ranger Weston had to hurriedly clear the table of his maps and pencils and pens, fumbling as he tried to make space: he'd set up quite the war room in Father's leave. Father wasn't as angry as I thought he would've been, to have a man over unchaperoned, let alone one that had been sleeping in his bed- but he was more relieved to be back, I think, more so than anything.
Unwily little Milk the kitten sure did make a huge announcement of his being there, pouncing and prancing and hopping about- more like a show pony than a kitten, which was kind of adorable. He's all wobbly and uncoordinated, but he was very intent on flopping about and pawing at the laces on Father's dress shoes, the leather creased and worn, but clean: unnaturally so, for someone to have been walking on foot in the woods.
Really, it's kind of a marvel. The search has been called off, of course, though some efforts are being expended to try to trace his path and find the car: he thinks he left it somewhere off of the shoulder, in the wooded area, so that no one would smash in the windows while it was left unattended: he can't quite remember where, but is sure that it's somewhere out of town.
Everyone is just glad to have him back at home, safe and sound. Milk has been moved into my bedroom, rather than remaining in the living room, and Ranger Weston said that he'd be taking his leave- though Father insisted that he's more than welcome to stay in the guest bedroom (which we typically keep locked, and needed a good spring cleaning in addition to fresh bed linens and room spray- Ocean Breeze, Milk picked out for him) for the time being, since Ranger Weston isn't due on his next assignment until summer's over, apparently. It isn't as if there are any hotels in town, and while the priest offered up a bed, Father thinks it'd be for the better if he were to stay with us for the time being. Cool. Milk likes Ranger Weston, anyway. He was playing with the magnet poetry pieces he brought out of a little tin the other day too, here are poems I made:
