It’s Thanksgiving, and I am thankful. But I can’t say that there weren’t a handful of times this past weekend that I didn’t get that lump in my throat. Some of you are familiar with it. It’s directly connected to the wound – the one that pierced your heart a while back.
It’s pretty much in remission, but not 100%.
It hit when we first gathered around the table for the feast, a hard swallow kept it in. Then again when I glanced at her picture, sort of on purpose, sort of not.
The Christmas music is playing on the radio now. Cheesy Kenny Loggins say to celebrate him home. I got no idea what that means but the girls and I belt it out like we do. Problem is, home isn’t a place. It’s not the nice painted brick house where we raised our girls. Not the porch where I sit to enjoy a cup of coffee. It’s not the dining room table where we gather for family meals.
It’s not even my parent’s house nor hers.
I guess she was sort of my home – my home base at least.
It feels a bit weird when you’re running hard and you realize that your destination no longer exists.
We’re all doing well. We’ve recreated life. We’ve done so in many wonderful ways. But home? I’m just not 100% sure where that is anymore.