During this quarantine, I made the decision to go stay with my parents. It was until now a very private decision and one that has been for the most part a positive experience. It is very surreal staying in the bedroom in which you grew up. Where you went from girl to woman. (or at least I thought I was a woman when I married at the ripe old age of 18 1/2 thank you very much.)

The rooms are different, they’ve been painted and carpeted. Its a suite of rooms which was unusual in the ’80s. For once we were ahead of the curve. But the memories are there. It’s funny how they linger in the air. The friends that I had sleepovers with. Talking on the phone after everyone else had gone to bed. Writing poetry…Lord the poetry of a teenage girl. I found them recently and I have kept them but I really hope that when my kids find them they will remember Mom was once 15 before they laugh. Getting ready for prom and then in a blink of an eye-getting ready for my wedding.

I don’t have a lot of memories from the year my young family moved in with my parents (there were just three of us) while we built a new home. Funny how that works. Mom and Dad probably still have nightmares of that time wondering if we would really move out. I am sure I don’t want to know what they thought when I told them the Viking was on the way and we hadn’t obtained our permits to move into the new house.

Here I am now, in transition. Back in this room, figuring things out… again. Thankful to be here, to have a home where I can land and land safely. I am still friends with most of the girls I had sleepovers with or was on the phone with. I am thankful for them as well they are great listeners and encouragers. I know the phrase “You can’t go home again” and the book that it is from. That people are stunned when they return “home” only to find it greatly changed. Yes, the rooms are decorated differently, the house seems a little smaller than it was, I am much older than when I last occupied these four walls. But home isn’t a house, it isn’t the structure. Home is the people who love me and support me. The ones who also hold me accountable and yet would also go to jail for me. They have all stayed steadfast. And that is why I am truly able to go home again. How unpredictable is that?