this is it.

Two parents fell asleep inadvertently on the rug, on the floor in front of the wood stove at 8:45 pm. We often do. Each day so full, so much, that by nighttime I feel like an empty husk.

What happened was that the year changed. January stretched out into its long steely grey. The fire was stoked again. The little one began taking those wobbly sideways steps to keep chatting with the girl at the library. The bigger child seemed to save up her explosions for the comfort of her own home asking to be held in the screaming, spitting, stomping gyre of being five.

I watched as they carried Thay’s body from his room to the center of the temple. So many hands holding him up. All of the fingers spreading like petals under his weight. And then they packed him into a beautiful box with buckets of sandalwood shavings. He was offered many chrysanthemums, bright, yellow, sturdy, and beautiful.

I could hear the lady who lives underneath us coughing. I saw her friends bring her eggs, soup, and orange juice. They stood outside away from her door taking care of her as we have all learned how to do.

And in the morning while it is still dark outside as the familiar smells rise up to wake me, melting butter, sharp citrus, the round green of my tea. I say, this is it. I have arrived. Here I am. I am home.