Every Sunday afternoon, I pack up and leave home. All week, I live in an apartment in Sanford where I work at a community college.
Every Sunday afternoon, the leaving makes me sad.
I should not complain. I have a good job—satisfying work with wonderful people, a family of sorts. And I have a comfortable apartment with everything that I physically need. It even offers solitude for writing. But it isn’t – and never will be – home.
“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.” ― Maya Angelou
I do ache when I pass through the gate and my home disappears behind me in the woods. The home where my husband lives. The home—not where I raised my children—but where they now come to visit. The only home for Mimi and PopPop that my granddaughters have ever known, and where they delight in our country life.
I should not complain. I think of our soldiers fighting for our freedom in harm’s way far away from home. They can’t pack up on Friday and drive two-and-a-half hours home.
And I think about the homeless. They have nowhere to go when darkness falls, when the winds and rains come, when winter cold bites.
I think about the hard-working people who lost their jobs and their homes in the recent recession.
I have a job. I have a home. They’re just not in the same town.
I know that one day this situation will change – one day the work and the home will be in the same location. I just don’t know which location.
So for the time being, I will draw from powerful words of previous days—optimism, persistence, perseverance, patience.
Patience. Patience. Patience.