When I was six, my parents and I moved from our tiny cottage on Lake Michigan to a normal suburban house outside of Lansing. The only things our new house had in common with the old were ourselves, our things, and our dog. We were on water, but the Grand River, while lovely in its own right, isn't Lake Michigan. I didn't have my friends, or my backyard, or my beach, or my little play area with my own tree stand. I lived in a neighborhood, with people around, instead of in a national park where the loneliness had its own beauty, the history was palpable, and breathing meant smelling cedar trees and sand. Nothing was familiar anymore. My father was home more since he wasn't traveling all over the state supervising a corporate restaurant culture; I couldn't ride with my mom on her home health visits anymore. I lived in a town. I'd had to leave my incredible Montessori school on Old Mission Peninsula and enroll in public school, which I hated because it turned out I needed glasses. Overall, the move hadn't been positive for me. At. All.
One day, I woke up to fresh snow falling. It was dark and cold when I got up for school, and I padded out to the kitchen, sat down at the table and found the warm spot on the floor for my feet, and my mom brought over cinnamon sugar toast and hot cocoa for breakfast.
It was a moment of pure, unadulterated comfort. Suddenly that house, that neighborhood, felt like home. The smell of buttered, cinnamon-y sweet toast and warm, creamy cocoa always makes me feel a little more whole inside. Today, I woke up and made that meal for breakfast. Because I'm home, in that same city, with snow falling, and I've finally found my place.
Edit: to complete today's theme, my dinner consisted of a grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup. I can't think of a meal more homey and more comforting.
No comments:
Post a Comment