As a constantly-busy person who lives away from home, going back to your hometown can mean a number of things. Sometimes, spending a weekend at home becomes an appointment; a schedule that you will have to pencil into your calendar just so you don’t forget it. Sometimes, showing up at home is a tradition; your presence is not only expected, but required. Admittedly, the drive home sometimes becomes a task; a fulfillment of duty to a family member, or a relative, that you sometimes can not keep your head in it because your mind is back in the city, inside your office, right at your desk.
But going home–every single time–is running away from all your personal troubles, join into the pool that is the family trouble, and let the people closest to you wash them all away afterwards. My favorite part of going home is the slow walk up the road, the stop-and-run as they chase me around, the boisterous laughter that always accompanies these chases and doesn’t give two poops about the neighbors’ peace.
My favorite part of going home is listening to the stories of my nephews and nieces, because then I will forget that I am a constantly-busy person who lives alone, and away from home. Because then, I remember that I am part of other people’s lives.
This post is in response to Daily Prompt: Home
The kids bragged that they put up socks for Santa to fill. Thinking that not a lot of kids believe this anymore, my heart was filled with warmth–until they took me outside the house, asked me to look up, and showed me this–then i almost died laughing: