Coming Home

photo by Seaver Creative

We no longer go to the old farmhouse for holidays—it is too much for my mother and has been for several years. I hosted our immediate family again for Thanksgiving this year, our first major holiday since my dad’s death, and my tears brined our turkey.

I was doing well: setting the tables, preparing the meal, enjoying our home filled with our children and grandchildren, but then I stepped on the cat’s tail, she howled, and I cried.

This grief jumps from around corners and invades the quiet moments of my life. It startles me, catching me without my security system set securely around my heart. Like today—the first delicious snow day of the school year. This gift of eight hours of unscheduled time smiles at me.

The house is mine.

The day is mine.

I sit with my coffee, admiring the beautiful, wet snow smothering the bird feeders, flocking the pines, blanketing the lawn, and I miss my dad.

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