They've gone. Little brother with littles of his own who resemble their mother, and a father who was back again after only ten months. What was left was as it always is: tired, dirty, quiet with finality, and the feelings all out of sorts. The deep missing I feel so strong, because it's born of love, is back, and I don't know what to do with it.
I can't put it away with the extra blankets and pillows, it won't be swept up as crumbs and extra foot traffic across my floors. It's a leftover much like the ones in my fridge; I'm never sure what to do with it until time makes it no longer fit for consumption and it can be thrown out.
Home is usually our familiar house on my usual street. But today home flew north to Boston and drove all day towards Texas with strawberry blondes singing Journey songs in the backseat.
And even with a lifetime of practice, I still don't know what to do with that.