|Summer 2010 - visiting Gpa and Gma R.|
I crawled into the crisp, pale blue sheets. Smelled the familiar smells. Surrounded by the familiar sights on the wall. Listening to my parents quietly share their thoughts as they always have before their time of quiet. I was a young girl again. In South Dakota. No responsibilities. No worries. Not a care in the world. I'd wake up to parents that loved. A cozy house. And breakfast lovingly prepared. Planning out another summer day. Probably needing to pick beans. Do some chores. And then run off with my braids straight off behind me looking for the next adventure.
But here I am. A middle aged lady with gray hair. A husband that loves me. Three children that are just great kids. A dog. A home. And a wonderful life that has meaning.
Some call it 'going home' when they go visit their parents. I've always struggled with that. I was 'going to dad and mom's'. But home is here. Home is where my own family is. And I think that is healthy and right. But there is something special about your first home. Memories are awakened. Feelings come back. And a thankfulness for a foundation that started the building blocks of choices.
I sometimes mention about being privileged. Being blessed. I speak of the past. Parents. Siblings (even my mean older brother). Grandparents. Dear friends. And a lot of opportunities to be in right places doing good things. But I also speak of the present. And have a deep, unwavering faith that the future will also be good.
And so. It felt good to be back 'home' again. And it also felt good to be back home again. It isn't a place. It is a feeling.