Coming home is just as strange and weird as leaving or traveling. For a few hours you're not used to being stationary, and regardless of when you get home, you're tired and groggy but it's too late for a nap and not early enough to just go to bed. And when was the last time you ate? Ugh.
So now I've slept and am faced with the daunting task of unpacking my baggage, physical and emotional. Spending a week with three generations of any family is bound to be unusual for a variety of reasons, and if you happen to be a relation too, stand back. Things could get... familial.
For a week that contained at least one national holiday, things were fairly subdued, actually. Most of the time was filled with the usual conversations and mundane experiences that usually brims over onto the table during similar occasions. My 91 year old grandma had some great stories to tell about building planes for the US during WWII (her partner in construction was actually named Rosie), my mom bought me my first tailored suit, and my sister took me to see my first Amanda Palmer show. My brother, taking a slightly different approach to the visit, instead offered to watch TV between his general grumpiness and complaints. So it goes.
And now I'm home, with my summer vacation already over, and a slight panic that perhaps I left something behind that I can't yet remember what it is. Was it on the coffee table? The entertainment center? Or in the bathroom. I keep searching my suitcase, trying to see what's missing, but I can't find it yet.
I'll make sure to let you know when I do, though.
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