Sunday dinner

I am laying on the bathroom floor of my apartment as I type this blog. The heat vent in this room is positioned advantageously for me to absorb the most possible heat; unfortunately, I am very uncomfortable on the tile floor.

Many winter mornings of my childhood were spent sitting atop the heat vents in the living room next to the big picture window, watching and waiting for the bus to come down the back road. I would pull a blanket around me and the air would blow up my covers to balloon-like proportions. And I especially remember those heat vents at holiday time-- they blew right at the Christmas tree and the smell of pine would fill our house.

Anyway, I really meant to write about Sunday dinners. Sunday evenings are almost always spent at home with my family, and friends often come along for the good meal. Tonight Sara and Britney (my roommates) joined me for Shepard's pie, hot rolls, pickled beets, etc.... MMM!

Missing family and Sunday dinners will possibly be the hardest part of moving away. Currently, I know that at the end of a long week everything will be fine because I can go home to the people I love most and forget my stresses. Whit always greets me at the door after hearing my car pull in the driveway, Meisha is usually in the kitchen helping Mom finish up dinner, and I'll walk in, hug Mom & say hi to Jake who is often picking at what's set out on the bar (I ALWAYS follow suit). If dad's home he might be reading the newspaper at the bar or relaxing in the lazy-boy. Ty and Steph usually show up after me with Dillon in tow- they walk in, say hello, and Dill automatically goes for toys. The weekly tradition of Sunday dinner is often what keeps me going... Not feeling well? "It's ok, I'm going home." Heartbreak? "It's ok, I'm going home." Bad semester? "It's ok, I'm going home." New crush? "How exciting, I'm going home." Good news about job acceptance? "How exciting, I'm going home." Going home is the solution to everything: the good, the bad, and the neutral.

Only 3 more Sunday dinners until I'm gone; this is the reality of how much time I have left, and the way I choose to count my days. I told Whit tonight that I'm leaving in 23 days. He didn't seem impressed, in fact, he ignored what I said and left me sitting on the rocker without him. Of all the people in my life I think it's him I will miss the most.


Everyone else knows that I'm only gone for a year and that a year isn't so long in the big picture, but in his case (the case of an 8 year old) a year is a very, very long time.

I'm getting homesick already.

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