“How does it feel to be home again?” my mom asked, when I told her we’d returned to our little house by the lake. It feels like a dream, I told her. Or it feels as if our time on the ranch was a book I read, something that happened to someone else.
There are boxes and bags everywhere; clear plastic bins of toys and wicker baskets full of clothes and a porch crammed with haphazard odds and ends, like a lamp and a book case and a dog bed. I don’t think we ever intended to be gone for so long, and now returning, I see how much the boys have grown, how much we’ve all grown. We didn’t find what we were looking for on the ranch, but we found other, more important things instead.
It’s going to take me a while to sort it all out–the clothes in the boys’ dressers that no longer fit, the too-small socks, the chunky baby books that no one reads anymore, plus my feelings and impressions about what happened on the ranch and why–but for now, it feels very, very good to be home.