And Then She Came Home

To shake sand from her pockets and out of her hair while waiting for a cab in the snow at 1am. Delayed by more snow, she made it home a day late only to wade through muck and icy slush and dirt to finish and find everything for a fundraiser hockey game that would commence in less than 24 hours. (She had to leave it all to the last minute, as the Grippe had laid her low for too long and then a flight to Fantasy Island literally took her away from it all.)

Once, it was stressful not to find a sand dollar, she thinks, wiping glue stick gunk off the counter. The beer tastes different here, doesn't it? Did we really cruise around stacked 5 or 6 in a golf cart, no seat belts to buckle, no ice to scrape off? Was that real? Was it possible that the to-do list included only three things -- sit at beach, sit at pool, find shells? Those freckly nosed, too exhausted to even be crabby kids -- were those her kids?

Home now -- even now, after that week -- was sweet: a nest of their own, a comfy bed she doubts she'll see for hours, a voicemail box full like always, a fridge empty like always, a clean house completely trashed in minutes... like always. It's home sweet home, this familiarity of the everyday -- the everyday she simultaneously abhors and adores. Maybe Mr. Roarke was right.