Going “home”

Over the last few years, my parents have been almost as migratory as me. Thus, their home is not my childhood home; it’s not even the home I lived in with them a year ago, though it’s not far from there. Some of the furniture is new, but there are some classics. Like the twin & trundle my grandfather built for my mom when she was young, which was passed on to me in my early childhood. Ikea could take notes from its sturdiness and simple reassembly.

I don’t really say “go home” anymore in reference to visiting my parents, since their house is new and unfamiliar. But visiting them, wherever they are, is a kind of going-home. My mom still makes the best chicken soup in the world. We still watch movies together. The dinner table is still a place where we eat together and talk.

At 9:30 PM tonight, which was really 8:30 PM for me due to the different time zone, I conked out on the couch while we watched “Sherlock.” I woke up and the end and expressed bewilderment that I was so tired.  My trip was not that difficult.

“You always sleep a lot when you come home,” my mom said, “you and your sister both do that; you just come home and sleep a lot.”

My best guess is, on a deep level my body knows we’re in a good place for a break.


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