It's not quite an adventure. Well...it'll be an adventure, alright, just not my kind of adventure.
I don't really consider any place home. I've lived in many places, but this one claims me as its own. People there claim me as their own.
I haven't been there in quite a long time. A lot of water under the bridge. Under all the bridges. Scars on the landscape, changes in how things are done. I tried to enumerate for my children what has changed since I was a child. So much is so different, but the time and distance are greater now.
People are gone, people I loved and will never see again. I tucked E.'s death away, stored it for future consideration. I save grieving for when I am ready, and sometimes I'm never ready. I think of her, and then suddenly, she is gone. I know it will hit me when I see her daughter, four years my senior. I'm still not ready.
I will have to suffer S. The last time I saw her, her behaviour was unforgivable. Is it "I forgive but I don't forget," or "I don't forgive nor do I forget?" Generally the latter.
Who will I be? They see one person, everyone else, another. As I said a couple of weeks ago, it all fits while none of it does.
I am excited. I am terrified. I am anticipating.
I'd like to hide under the bed.
I think I'd rather have surgery.
On the subject of adventures, CL and I are once again off to the wilds of Sunset Boulevard Thursday evening. The enchanting Heather Armstrong will be signing her new book at Book Soup.
Should be a hoot.
Go listen to some good music: "Going Mobile" from the album Who's Next by The Who. My most enduring Who memory: working a PBS fundraiser at 16 and being asked by the producer to sit on the stage while they set and color corrected the cameras a couple of hours before going live. He played "Won't Get Fooled Again" very loudly over the PA and started switching the cameras on the monitors in time to the music. It was weird.