Sitting at a kitchen table with a
hot plate of pasta and talking over a television playing an animated movie in
the background. Surrounded by laughter and an unspoken gentle familiarness
where everything and nothing seems to matter. We pass a bowl of cut
strawberries and heaping spoons of cool whip and try to forget that these
moments are so limited. In the moment, this is home.
Our little family unit may be a
few thousand miles apart but we’re as tight knit as can be. Growing up all we
had was family, especially in the church, it always seemed unfairly that it was
“us” and then “them.” It was hard to be the subjects of other people’s sin, a
point that still leaves bitterness and anger stinging in my gut. We grew in,
into each other, into a rather unique pack, if you will.
I always thought that we lived an
incredibly dramatic life. But the more I think about it, it’s more like a really,
really, really dark comedy. The kind that makes you sort of squirm and a little
bit uncomfortable but still makes you feel more braver and stronger than
before.
BTW, in my head, Ellen Page plays
me.
Our pack is always safe. No fake
fronts, no fake smiles, no expectations. And there is love. So, so, so, so much
love. I hope my children have those memories. I don’t care if they remember
what they did, or what presents they got, I want them to remember how they felt.
So having my family here in my
house is absolutely the best thing ever. I am 100 percent whole because I can’t
possible feel more at home and at peace than when they are close. Leaving is
never easier. In the eight years we’ve lived a part it’s never not hurt me to
my very core.
Empty chairs at my table, empty
bedrooms, empty house…
Empty heart.
