Having arrived at my parents’ condo in Lakewood, I am reminded all the more that I am a guest here by the fact that my father is at work and my mother is doing some sort of volunteering job until dinnertime. I have to beg the office manager to let me in. When this does not work, I have to have my mother call him. I am now sitting on these leather chairs they would have never had while I lived at home, wondering about a fancy charity dinner we are all three attending later this evening, and second-guessing my decision on stopping here on the way to stepping off into the unknown. As usual, I feel a mixture of comfort and discomfort common when you are visiting your parents’ home in which you have never lived.
I asked a friend last night what the hell I thought I was doing. He threw my own words back at me about adventuring, told me I was strong and fierce, and to get over it.
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And now I think I will watch the Blue Angels practice maneuvers from my parents’ balcony, because no one can ever gain the soul of a writer indoors lamenting on her keyboard.