Home

Home.

Home never felt so good. Eight days away doesn’t seem like much, from a big picture perspective. In the forest of my life, it is but a few leaves. (Sorry, I waxed poetic. It was an accident.) The thing is, the time I spend in north Georgia just doesn’t allow any time to decompress. That’s what makes time drag the way it does.

I get up, wait for my father to get up, and I get him squared away. Coffee, whisky, cigarettes. A glass of Ensure. I go to work, and the job is stressful, by nature. Then I go back to my dad’s house and hang with him. It is hard to see him in this condition. It takes an emotional toll.

Toward the end of the week, I found myself getting cranky, and snappy with people. I managed to catch myself before I did any damage, but still, having to watch my tongue is tiring in itself.

What made it more stressful than usual this week: there was a friggin typhoon sitting on top of my neighborhood, and all I could do was watch weather.com and try not to lose my mind. Has a tree smashed into my house? They call this place Wonderwood for a reason. The oaks are ancient and massive. And with the Intracoastal only three hundred yards away, I was also sweating a flood. It’s never flooded here in twenty years since the neighborhood was built, but has there ever been this kind of storm just sitting there for three days dumping rain at a rate of three inches an hour during some stretches?

I was getting updates from people here, but it’s different, someone telling you your home is intact, rather than seeing it for yourself. It was additional negative energy, and by Friday, I struggled to keep a foul mood at bay. It took an effort.

I sit here and read this and it sounds like I’m whining. Maybe I am. Hopefully, this will be the extent of my whining. The point is, I’m glad to be home. My bed. My couch. My TV. My remote. My home.