Going Home

As I drove to the book store one sunny afternoon, I realized that being with Michael was like coming home.  I thought of all the people who I could have asked to join me.  They were people that I loved, family and friends, who may have been available for a short outing to look at books.  It was then that I realized there was only one person that I wanted with me at that moment.  That no one could fill the space of Michael.  He was who I really wanted to come with me, like we did so many time before.  He was my comfort.  He was like home, after a long, or short trip to a different place.  He was like getting into your own bed after several nights away sleeping in a hard or lumpy bed, or eating at a table that wasn’t quite the right height and had a sticky spot that was unidentifiable.  Michael was like kicking off a new pair of shoes that didn’t fit exactly right and sliding sore feet into warm and fuzzy slippers.  Even though I was happy to be at those other places and had a wonderful time there, it was not home. There was a part of myself that was always waiting to go home.  Home is where I like to be best.  So even though I love all the people I spend time with and they are required for my happiness and well-being, they are not home.  Home disappeared. I can’t get used to never being able to go home again.