Sweet Tweets

Thursday, August 25, 2011

Going Home

My "home" is with my husband, but I can't help but say that I'm "going home" when I travel to Atlanta. Especially when it means going to my parent's house.

Going home is...
  • flying over the city I know so well with its sparkling lights at night
  • being wrapped in a blanket of softly-humid warmth when I step out of the airport
  • the porch light shining as a beacon down the dark street
  • the smell of pine needles and gardenias when I pull up in the driveway of my parent's home
  • the scent that can't be described, but it's my parent's house
  • the beautiful white furniture in "my" bedroom that I've had since I was six
  • my bedside light softly gleaming, waiting just for me
  • the mattress that is so familiar my body fits into it like a pair of favorite jeans
  • my mother's smiling voice waking me gently before she leaves for school
  • my father's pot of coffee waiting for me on the counter
  • the whole house vacuumed and cleaned as if I was special company coming to stay
  • familiar pictures in frames that bring a smile to my face
  • watching the birds flit around my mother's bird feeder right outside the kitchen window
  • Chick-fil-A goodness being right down the street
  • dinner with my parents at our regular Mexican spot
  • discovering that the enormous gardenia bush has given me a gift of three new blooms
Home is an anchor of love, certainty, and familiar comforts.

0 Remarks: