Excerpt from Dwelling
As I round the bend and our house comes into view, it doesn't matter whether the grass needs mowing or the driveway needs shoveling, or even that the empty trash barrels - if it's a Tuesday - are tipped over in a jumble out front.
I pull into the driveway. The drawbridge goes down. I drive in. The drawbridge goes up. I enter the house. Sigh. I'm home.
After greeting family members and Gus, our standard poodle, who is bouncing off the ground on all fours, I head upstairs to change. My at-home uniform waits on a hook just behind the closet door. The soccer pants are the extremely comfy kind with a cotton layer inside and nylon outside. They have a small hole in the left knee from my falling down in the street and, more importantly, an elastic waist. I add a T-shirt or turtleneck and sweatshirt depending on the season, cotton socks, and felt slippers smashed down on the heels.
No matter what the day has been like, now I'm all better. I'm at home.
Home is first and foremost the place where we are accepted, where it's safe to just be. It's a place where it's okay to not wear makeup and where cereal will work for dinner if that's what you have it in you to fix (or to let others fix). Don't we all crave such a place?