There is something about one's home
that can never be imitated 0r substituted.
It fits like a warm, worn sweater-
like comfy flannel "jammers".
And like the front door key,
it fits so perfectly-
feels so safe...
I like vacations, visits, and road trips.
But nothing is ever quite as comfortable
as home.
Take for instance this morning.
I am visiting my son and using his laptop.
A Mac.
Mine at home is a desktop Windows Vista.
With a mouse.
This little finger pad he has
is causing me premature arthritis
and uncharacteristic cursing.
Plus, I'm at loss when posting a picture.
I like my desk chair, my fuzzy slippers-
the way the coffee pot beeps when its done brewing.
The click of the furnace, the hum of the fridge-
and the way the light shines through the blinds.
And call me psycho,
but I just cant get used to a
different toilet.
It's like a little porcelain stranger
that's not quite molded to my body.
It's like wearing a pair of new shoes-
stiff and uncomfortable
and you just cant wait to
finish what you're doing
so you can get out of there.
Of course, there's the sleeping arrangements.
Nothing beats your bed at home.
Strange beds are either too soft or too hard-
too cold or too warm-
has too many pillows
or not enough.
I know-
I have issues.
There are four controllers here
for the TV-
no visible clocks to tell time-
and nothing but health food
in the fridge and cabinets.
It's a beautiful house
with nice things.
But
it's not my house.
I'm used to the dust bunnies
under the wing chair,
the coffee stains on the counter-
the spot on the kitchen wall
where a chair has worn the paint.
I'm missing the smell of my banana candle,
Snuggle fabric softener,
and broccoli cooking for dinner.
Home is like fingerprints.
Unique and all your own.
Fitting well and staying part of you.
I'll be back there soon.
I am already
missing the familiarity of my house.
And, yeah-
about now-
I'm especially missing
my little porcelain friend...
