“When we go home Daddy? Seven days? Eight?” A pause. “Nine? When Daddy? When we go?”
I was busy putting a little bike grease onto the squeaky hinges of our Shasta’s main closet, and I almost missed the importance of the question being asked.
We have been gone for less than a week — far too short to even qualify as a big vacation, let alone an epic road trip around the United States. J.’s question came because he was trying to get his bearings — gain some parameters for understanding why all of his routines just faded in the rearview and when they may be returning.
As his question sank in, I realized I am feeling the same. The split-level Brady special in Atlanta is nothing more than bricks, framing, and carpets. My family is with me, and that makes the three of us right at home wherever we happen to find ourselves. However, I miss a stable desk for my computer. I miss the wifi buffet. I miss the bikes. I miss the thick Sealy mattress. I miss streaming Netflix on my phone. I miss adjoining bathrooms.
But it is good to miss these things. I have spent too long surrounding myself with comfort and minimizing pain. Suburban living can be somewhat of an opiate, and nobody is meant to meander through life anesthetized and numb.
So we journey on, uncertain of much, but thankful for the road ahead and the lessons as we roll along.
Writing today from Beaumont, Texas, where not much seems to be going on. I couldn’t find anything to photograph — hence the recycled shot from Mississippi earlier this week. Coming attractions: Galveston, Houston, San Antonio, Austin. Stay tuned.