So what is it that brings this pain?
I am home. It’s where I want to be. Home is, aferall, always, the best place to be. After.
After visiting kids.
After going to a concert.
After a trip.
I have things to do, things I LIKE to do, things I LOVE to do.
Working in my yard; mowing my lawn, planting flowers, watering them afterward.
Writing my books.
So what is missing? What is the pain in my heart that produces tears. Tears . . . for what I don’t know. For something . . . what? . . . that is not.
I have “been there, done that”. I’m grateful it is not “eleven o’clock and I don’t know where my kids are.” I am grateful for “peace” and orderliness and Easy Listening on the radio, no TV blarring cartoons or MTV music.
It doesn’t make sense to say home doesn’t feel like home. But that’s how it feels sometimes.
I’m home but something is missing. And I don't know what it is. I don’t get it.
I was online looking up a location for my genealogy – the county someone lived in. For some reason, I typed in Huntington Woods, a suburb of Detroit, and the city we lived in from 1963-1979; the place my kids were raised, mostly.
According to the website, Huntington Woods is still considered one of the best places to live. How about that. Then I looked at a map – apparently they are doing some construction this summer, fixing roads, mostly. So I thought the map would show where the construction was going to be.
The map was just a bunch of lines intersecting with names on them. And then I saw it – our street – Vernon. And the pain hit. And the tear ducts began to spout.
For what we lived, what we did, for how fast it all happened. Like in the blink of an eye . . .
It’s now been thirty years since we left . . .
and up comes the pain . . .