Home

I am making soup in a kitchen overlooking the
Snake River. The sun floods in belying the
freezing temperature outside. I pick up a plastic
glass whose rim is bent. I wonder...how old is
that glass, anyway? Thirty, forty years? Every
summer it holds the black cows of ice cream
and root beer. The carpet has not changed,
neither has the paneling or most of the pots and
pans. I write in a chair my father-in-law slept in
every afternoon. The wood fence along the
property was built by my teenage son and his
Grandpa. That son turns 40 in a few days; that
Grandpa died 23 years ago. Our children came
here as infants, and now my daughter bathes her
son each summer in the very same bathtub.

When my mother-in-law returns we will ride
over to the farm house soon to be our dwelling
place. But, we change houses the same way some
people change clothes and it is nice to be part of the
town where Glen grew up, to linger in a house
that holds so many memories.
It is good to be home.

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