Last weekend I went home for the first time since June. Last weekend I arrived at my dear friend’s insanely adorable new house, stared at the front garden, her porch swing, the dried lavender hanging from the ceiling, gawked at the gigantic spider building a web outside her kitchen window, and sat down with a Coors to catch up. We talked about how things had changed over the past year, how we had been lost, but things were slowly becoming more clear. We both have lovely homes that we are relieved to come back to at the end of the day. We aren’t trying to escape anymore. We’re stepping into lives we can call our own. Is this what it feels like to start “getting it together?”
Last weekend I slept with the windows open at my parents house with crickets as white noise, and I watched entirely too many episodes of Property Brothers with my mother. (Not really, there’s no such thing as “too many episodes of Property Brothers”) I had my favorite dish at the Indian restaurant in town, and ran into old family friends. Then ran into another friend as I was picking up Indiana beer to bring back with me. It made my heart happy to see people I knew, to catch up, to be around the familiar. Home was familiar, it was comfortable, and it was safe.