The days are long. The years are short.
I spend most of my waking hours away from home, away from my child. Away from my mate, my dog, my family of origin.
Like so many others, I spend an awful lot of time in the car, criss crossing town between my child's school and my own, to and from home, and so on.
Evenings spent coming home like this:
Make these moments all the more precious:
After supper (take out pizza) we went into the yard to look for meteor showers. The city lights make it difficult to see them. We saw blinking planes, believing at first they were meteors, adjusted, watched, waited, foggy wisps of breath issuing from our mouths. Craning our necks back, upward starting into the vast sky.
"Space HAS no end," said our son when his father attempted to explain how to look into where you couldn't see the space anymore.
"Will the meteor rocks hit our house?" he asked.
"How can we see the meteors if the rocks break into something small as a grain or rice or sand, Dad?"
And then the tromp back into the house, the unplugging of the Christmas tree lights, the readying and cozying into flannel sheets, the Mister's voice reading aloud from the seventh book of the Harry Potter series.
I drifted off. Surrounded by the people I love, in the kind of moment we live for.
Light. Yes, it can be both wave and particle, but too, it can be: Home. Hope. Hello.
Or even the road toward it.