moving on

And now I am in Kentucky, visiting my father in the house our family has lived in since 1960, sleeping in my old bed with the pink and green floral dust ruffle in my old bedroom with the matching pink and green floral wallpaper. Of course, it is easy to feel eight, twelve, sixteen years old again when I am under this roof.

Since my mother died, the sounds and smells and rhythms of the house have changed. But little else has. Things have not been rearranged here. It is very easy to simply forget that she is gone and sit in the kitchen waiting for her to waltz in wearing her long silk robe to cook up some French toast for breakfast.