There is nothing like going HOME.
Not the place I reside as a wife and mother.
But the actual place where I grew up.
The home I was born in is still the residence of my parents;
well only my mom now.
Each year we pack up our family
and trek across country to grandpa and grandma’s.
It is the place I call HOME.
There is nothing like being there.
We walk through the same gate that I walked through coming home from elementary school,
leaving for my honeymoon,
and bringing home newborns.
The house has creaks that I remember from being a child,
I can jump over in the exact spots
in the hallway
to not wake up others.
I hid in the ivy playing hours of hide and seek.
We buried our family dog under the window
near the fence.
and now my children
jump off the roof
into the pool
when grandma and “mom” aren’t watching.
It is the place where no matter how old I am,
I can still be mothered by my own mom.
And mother’s still need to be mothered
every once in awhile.
This time the “summer same” at my home
felt a little strange.
My father was not there this year.
He has been there
We expected to hear his funny whistle as he walked through the back door
bringing home popsicles and milk.
We wanted to see him dressed in his coveralls
puttering in the yard,
planting geraniums for grandma
and picking us
But mom was home.
So it still felt…the same in a way.
There is really nothing like going HOME.