No place like home
It’s Sunday, and I’m writing this piece in my car, on my street.
I am not in a parking spot, per se, nor have I nestled cozily into my driveway. I don’t have a driveway. And yet again today, there is no available street parking.
So I am writing this piece in my car, on my street, on the sidewalk. This is not lawful, so I decide to continue writing from inside the house.
On this particular Sunday, however, my front door has swelled shut. It does that sometimes, from the heat. Or, perhaps, from the cold.
As my anger swells, I begin to thrust my entire body weight against the door to get it to open. I can only imagine what would happen if I was being chased by a raccoon. Oh, yeah, we have raccoons.
Heroically, I burst through the front door, only to trip on the hundreds of sneakers strewn across my front hall. Why must this happen? I have only two children. Neither one is an octopus. Neither one is Imelda Marcos. Why so many shoes?
Braving a minefield
And why must I step through the hallway as though braving a minefield?
I come to, and on this particularly trying Sunday, I decide that I will retire to the den to finish writing this rant.
But I can’t help but notice the flickering light coming from the kitchen. Is there anything in my house that works properly?
Really! The faucets drip, the floorboards creak, and the sump pump is no longer pumpin’ sumpin’.
Decrying Sundays all together, I storm into the kitchen to fix the flickering light.
But it turns out the flicker is from a candle. My wife and sons are waiting for me around a candlelit dinner. Because on this particular Sunday, it is Thanksgiving. And as I settle in beside them, my frustration begins to ease.
We are warm, we are giggly, and we are often well fed.
I am lucky to have this home, and I am grateful to get to share it with my family.