I find myself thinking back to a time, recent yet oh so long ago. A time when the family I chose—not the family I was given—lived across a small stretch of pavement and grass. When there stretched a vast, wondrous playground just beyond the doors of my home. When my loves shared so small a space and yet wanted for so little. When joy and laughter were nestled away, across the street, in a familiar, cozy place. Or just past the shed, where the flames licked the low-hanging branches of trees older than “One small step for man…” Or right in front, curled up on a sofa, all together, all one. Where even frustrations at the age and structure of home were easily forgiven when reminded of the wondrous, happy memories made within.
There are days I wish I could go home again, even if I’m already here.