I am a romantic. I can wax poetic about anything. Really, I can call out the beauty of a ham sand which, polyester or tuft of hair in the shower drain. What is even easier to romanticize is the the place where I am. It is easy to wax poetic about the place where I am now; because I know it will be the place where I've been.
The place I am now is walking the wee Pancake to the grocery store. It is two blocks away from home. She talks endlessly about all things most important to a five year old. What color her favorite flower is, what color her favorite tree is, her shiny new sandals, "Aren't they pretty Mama, can I wear them to school?" And we hold hands and talk about what she wants her birthday cake to be, chocolate or strawberry. It is gorgeous outside. Movie gorgeous. Warm and syrupy. Not quite dusk, but sunset light all the same.
And I get all misty for being able to walk two blocks to the grocery store. All sad because we will be moving to the country soon. And I get all sad, knowing that we have certain things we do here, where we are now. Certain places we go and know exactly what to expect. We know who will be there and what we will order. We know where the good parks are, the one with the best slide and the local house cat who always stops by for a pet. The cat that will lay there and tolerate the most roughest of grabby toddler grabs. And it never bites or hisses, it just reluctantly moves on to the next kid.
Where we are now, will be where we have been. It wasn't our choice to be here in the first place. But we call it home now. But home is a fluid and finite thing. The only permanence is us, the Family Hall.
It is the oddest sensation. It is like having my belly filled with ice chips and my jet pack roaring to life, all at the same time.
More on the jet pack later.