I’m going to give you a little bit of my weekend in pictures.
I’m not sure how I’m feeling. There’s a flurry of excitement when James is actually there for dinner on Friday night and, suddenly, that long off dream of us sitting around a table as a family is a reality. I have my space and my family right here.
There’s a lot of stuffing into the weekend everything it can hold from views to flavors. I have the tourist’s list in my mind of things I want to do and see, checking myself when I think of wasting a moment of time on something we’ve already done.
I find myself listening to my own voice frequently saying, “You live here. It’s ok. You live here.”
My husband bought me a membership to an art museum. He held it cupped in his hands and delivered it like a fledgling to its mother. My daughter wept over opera music. My son told me exactly why he liked a beautiful fauvist art piece, pulling out every hidden color. There were hot dogs in the park, French onion soup in the café, and the wide flat Pacific.
How long will it take for me to comprehend that I’m staying?
And the views I can get within a ten minute walk from my house suck the breath right out of me.
Pinch me; I think I may be dreaming.