Breakfast on Sunday mornings has become a ritual any time I’m at home. Even though today is technically Monday, it feels like Sunday around here, so this morning was no different.
Usually, I wake to the smell of bacon frying downstairs. Through all the closed doors, up the stairs, and down the hall, it breaks through my deepest of sleeps and slowly brings me to consciousness. Even though I want to rush down and eat, I usually linger in bed. Somehow, I always sleep better in my childhood bedroom. The room is brighter than the one I have now, the sun always streaming through the thin shades, but it’s rarely the thing to wake me.
Today there was no bacon on the stove, but there were homemade cinnamon rolls–apple cinnamon to be exact. Baked months before, I had brought them home where they have lived in our freezer until my mother decided today was the day to have them. So we baked them up, filling the kitchen with a strong sense of home.
The four of us ate together. My mom, dad, brother, and me, all gathered in the eat-in kitchen, sharing the start of our day. My baby brother, still away at college, was the only missing piece.
And we lingered there. Sure, my brother went back to bed, my dad was in and out as he put away the bits and pieces still left from last night’s Labor Day party. But my mother and I are still here, talking and laughing as I try and teach her how to put pictures on her digital photo frame. I know I need to go pack. Find my things and start the process of leaving.
But it’s hard to shake the feeling that this is still my home. No matter how long I’ve been away at college or now living on my own in Indy, this is the place I long to return to. To sleep in that bed and sit at this table and be surrounded by those who are most important in my life.
Growing up means moving out and moving on. Finding your own place in this world and perhaps making due with only seeing the people you love once in a while. Which is why I cherish days like today. I’m not sure when this will happen again, so for now I’ll sit at this small table and listen to my parents playfully argue about how much food they cooked for our party last night as the dogs lay at my feet. I’ll soak it all in and try to fully appreciate everything I have.
I love this feeling, almost as much as I love this place.