The Nomad Comes Home

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I pull to a stop and put on my parking brake, trying to remember which way I am supposed to turn my steering wheel when parked on a hill. I grab my purse from among the bags of food on my passenger seat and teeter on my heels up the steep driveway.

As I approach the door, it opens and after the barest of greetings I am standing in "my room".
As unfamiliar as it is.

So this is it. The end of my months of nomadic wanderings.

Today fall hangs heavy in the air and I am glad for the wall of boxes that contain nearly forgotten luxuries like cozy pajamas and sweaters. I gingerly open the box marked "winter clothes" and breathe a sigh of relief that I will not need to hunt through the other six boxes that mention some item or other of warm weather clothing, as I used my wardrobe as packing material. I sigh with relief because there on top is my soft, snuggly sleepwear.

And underneath that is a light bulb.

I really can't be bothered now by why a light bulb made friends with my pajamas. Bed and the sleep found waiting there is too high a priority.

I drift to sleep dreaming of good things: like an iron and socks and my own beloved pillows; all to be found when the Great Wall of Boxes comes down.

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