It isn’t even 7 AM and I’ve muttered “What the fuck?” under my breath more times than I care to admit. The first “WTF.” Emerged when I realized that my running shoes were in the closet of my hotel room. I turned around near Woburn, headed back to Burlington, hustled back to room 329. I flung my closet open. There my shoes were - a pair of unblinking, cobalt eyes staring up from the floor of the closet. I grabbed them, ran back downstairs and began again.
Yesterday, I got “home” from work at 9 PM. And it was one of those days your momma warned you about - the kind where you’re assured that things will look better in the morning. Only they don’t look better.
Andrea and I get vacation underway next Friday. We haven’t been on vacation since March of 2019. It’s overdue following readying the house for sale, moving, etc. This morning I read of a new store that’s opened in Lynchburg, Virginia. I clicked the link and they ask, “How can we pray for you?” I feel a little desperate so I almost consider it but instead close the site. The south. Amirite?! I open my horoscope instead and find that it cautions, “Trust your intuition, Libra. If it feels right, then it usually is.” Ugh.
It will be good to see Andrea and the pets. I felt unmoored on this trip. Where is home? Will 1043 Amanda Ct feel like sanctuary in the way that Parkhurst felt? I long for Andrea, pajamas and pets. But home? I feel unsure of the concept even though yesterday’s version of “psychic radio” blared Home at me. Maybe home is wherever I’m with you after all? (You = pets and Andrea).
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