I don’t think I ever really put much thought into what home meant to me until recently.
Sure, I have a house. A house that I will forever be grateful for. She’s creaky and drafty. One of the fire place decorative mantles is slowly coming apart from the wall. The windows rattle when it’s windy and they weep when it’s raining. But she’s ours, for better or worse.
This weekend was tough. Tough because Friday night and Saturday were simply perfect - aside for the black ice that sent my Subaru spinning out into a field.
It’s very rare my husband and I see each other for more than a few hours a day. So when he is home, like he was this weekend, I don’t take it for granted. If I’m being honest, I also don’t get much done around the house on these days either.
We woke up at 8:00 and had orange French press coffee with farm fresh eggs for breakfast. Both the fireplace and the wood burning stove were lit and ran until they were reduced to embers near midnight. We sat by the fire and then we binge watched Samurai Jack season 5 of all things. I laughed when he put it on, and then found myself sucked into the story as well.
It was a perfect do-nothing Saturday. And yet it hit me hard that I don’t know when we’ll get another day like this.
Saturday with him felt like home. Today I’m just here in this house, doing my best to get my shipping done and draft another round of listings.
I’m doing my best to bring him home.