I have always struggled with which place to call home. When I am going to my mom's house I always say, "I am going home." Where I grew up does seem like home. So does the place I call home right now. Confusing.
I stayed at my mom's house last week-end. We arrived Friday night to help with end-of-summer garden chores. It felt like home to have Mom's cold fried chicken, pasta salad, and good conversation. It was fun to sample a new sweet red wine together. I enjoyed getting caught up on family news.
It felt like home when I got up the next morning to enjoy Mom's hot, fresh coffee and see her with the Spokesman Review all sprawled around her as she greeted me with news of the day. Deadheading her flowers, comparing green thumb stories of plants we could and couldn't grow, and marveling over the Seven Sisters Rose felt like home. Seeing her solar lights as I watered her pots felt like home.
Losing stuff from the freezer to the upstairs felt like home for both of us. So did spilling coffee, dumping ash, and finding dog droppings. Later the smell of her Weber barbecue cooking a London Broil reminded me of so many meals on the deck. As more family gathered for dinner, new drinks, laughs, and more laughs it felt like home.
We got a lot done in Mom's yard. I enjoyed the company, food, Saturday nap, flower picking, and much more.
When we arrived home yesterday the first thing I said after saying hello to the cats and checking the mail was, "There is no place like home." Last night as we enjoyed a pizza and a new wine with our animals surrounding us, it was home.
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