Home.

I nestle my metal bowls into her metal bowls. The ones she brought and the ones I brought, layered together. Her glass containers are round and my glass containers are rectangular and they are tucked neatly into a drawer together. I sort laundry, now, by darks and lights, like my mom taught me to do 28 years ago. I learn her ways of doing things, most better than my own: orderly, efficient, thoughtful.

It was when Vesta was born or maybe when we moved back to Portland or maybe finding a home for my work at Ethereal or maybe announcing Harvey’s pregnancy, the last time I truly felt so blessed and happy and grateful as I do now. When I smiled so widely because I had paid my dues and everything was coming up roses for me. So many lifetimes ago. So many versions of myself ago. It isn’t just that I didn’t think I would ever feel like this again, it was that I thought I lost my ability to. I thought I was no longer capable. I was sure of it.

But my life has begun again last week and a year a half ago and during a million moments in between. I am happy and I am grateful and I am blessed. And I no longer expect it or feel entitled to it, so it is sweeter, deeper, and fuller. Better than I imagined before it all fell apart.

We layer and tuck and sort our lives into one another. And I am home. Fully and finally, I am at the home I have been yearning for my whole life. Knowing this could also disappear, implode, explode also makes it sweeter, deeper, fuller because I have it now. I suffered through excruciating moments and now I languish in these full of love and bliss, ease and joy. At home, fully and finally. For now.

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