Where is home? Is it the place you came from? The house? The town? Is it the place where you currently receive your mail?
What is home? Is it a place? A feeling? Is it a habitual routine you fall back into reflexively when you go there?
In my case, I know I'm home when mother, who doesn't dare boss around the caregiving staff, puts away her politeness and bosses me around because "they don't know anything at all about it." Because I'm "family" and not "help", she feels she's entitled to resume directing every aspect of running the house, from which lights to turn on or off, when to open or close windows and drapes, how long to let Mary swim, and making sure I have remembered to feed the animals next door. Because she can no longer do it herself, she manages the house through me, as my parent, nagging until I assure her every task is satisfactorily completed.
I was given to understand that Mom was slowing down significantly, but that applies only to her walking. Her mind is as aware as it ever was, except for some short-term memory lapses. Her mind seems to be recovering - she's sharper now than she was last summer - and I know it's thanks to Isy's good care as much as to Mom's iron constitution.
I love it here. I miss my family in Sacramento. I guess I have two homes!
1 comment:
Don't you know that you're always 12 as far as your parents are concerned. My father once said, "Are you going out in that?" I was 35.
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