Home again, home again. France was amazing from start to finish. Magical, even. The people, the places, the experiences will not be forgotten, even by my errant mind. I walked 50+ miles in the last week and some, ate entirely too much fabulous food (CHEESE! THE CHEESE!) drank a lot of coffee (not a single bad cup the whole time. Seriously good coffee) and come home no worse for wear…but for the blisters the size of silver dollars on my feet. They’ll heal.
Being home again is good. Very good. I missed it, and my routine. I haven’t been so long without writing in twenty years. No lie. I’ve been writing daily since 1996, and haven’t gone more than a weekend or a week’s vacation without writing in all that time. This extended hiatus has been hard, to be honest. I’d be afraid I won’t be able to get back into the swing of things but that won’t happen. As I said to a friend yesterday–I have to at least pretend it’s hard once in a while.
I feared the world would come crashing in on me once I got home and “the day of days” smacked me in the face. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m still settling in, riding the French high, or that I have a beloved dollbaby house guest here this week, but the world remains intact. Yet the weekend looms. Father’s Day will never again be a day to celebrate fatherhood for me. It will ever be the last day of my son’s life. I’d hope it might change one day, years from now when the pain isn’t quite so raw, but I don’t see that happening. It will never be any less raw. After a year waiting for that to happen, I’m pretty certain it’s not going to. That’s not to invite a pity party. It’s simply a fact. An aspect of my life I’ll get accustomed too, that I have actually already become accustomed to. We wear our pain well, or poorly, but we wear it one way or another. I choose to wear it well rather than let it wear me down.
Now it’s time to get back to Nell and Ledanora in quaint, magical little Sprookskill, NY. They’ve been waiting for me.