I sit alone on a Saturday morning, melancholic. A quiet house makes me miss the bustling neighborhood of home.
Why, as a grown woman, do I still have the urge to drive over to my parents house? To knock the way my family all does, saying hello multiple melodic times as all our aunts and uncles do? It’s just getting cold there, and it would be wonderful to make a pot of coffee and drink it around the kitchen table, listening to them kvetch about the little things bugging them this week.
D has told me in the past that you never get too old to need your mom and dad, but I wonder if I should have outgrown this by now.