tolstoy said it

My writing is like those little carved baskets made in prisons. And those unfortunates produce miracles of patience.

--Anna Karenina

eclipse

there is rain outside heavy enough to purge sin.

it's flushing along the road. flushing along the students holding umbrellas, soaked anyway. flushing along the dirt in the cracks of the sidewalk, the dead heads on my petunia, the odds and ends left on the tree lawn (free!).

a frightening total eclipse of the day.

home

i underestimated how it would feel to take my little hal baby back across the mississippi to the place where i lost teeth and wore my hair in pigtails and played double-dutch in the rain and locked my sister out of my room and took my keeshound for wild runs through red rock and tumbleweed.

it felt all fluttery when i could see my rocky mountains out the west window of the plane. it felt so jumpy i could hardly hold the feeling inside when we caught sight of the strange circus tent of a roof that means you're about to reach final descent into denver international airport. it felt nearly transcendent when i deplaned holding my groggy and disoriented little guy and got a whiff of that thin thin waterless air. and i don't think there's a word for seeing my father outside baggage claim, waiting.

it all felt supremely good.

but if i underestimated how good it would feel to go back to the place i grew up, i really underestimated how good it would feel to come home. yes, cleveland. home. home to my impatiens and my petunias. home to my two bedrooms and leaky garage. home to my scratchy patch of lawn and peony bushes. home to the place where hal lights up and runs his eyes over everything, satisfying himself that everything is in place.

how can one person have so many places called home?