It’s been a year since I’ve been home. I missed Christmas because of work, so Thanksgiving marks a full lap around the calendar. My mom’s been complaining lately about how difficult things have gotten for her. Everything seemed so out of reach, so imposing, so impossibly unmanageable, she says. I know they’re getting older and I feel guilty that I’ve neglected to spend time with them lately, but it’s been a really busy year and I’ve had so little time for anything other than work.

The six hours it takes to drive there always feels like it’s going to be so much worse than it is, but really it’s a lovely drive. It’s nice to get out of the city sometimes and back to the peace and quiet of small town life. My childhood home is a welcome sight, reliably familiar, unchanged from my youth, and instantly I feel at home. White shutters against blue painted siding, bright orange marigolds standing defiant against the imminent turn to winter, bright orange maple leaves surrendering, accepting their fate. There is nothing like the feeling of pulling into that driveway in autumn, it’s like getting under a warm blanket on a chilly day.

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