Tomorrow – or rather – in a few hours, our 9 long weeks of traveling over 28’000km to 9 countries is coming to an end as we finally go home.
Except “going home” seems so foreign, especially as I do it with 2 of the 4 kids I left Anguilla with back in June.
The island breeze, the smell of the ocean, the sounds I hear when I lay in bed with the window open have faded so much. We have seen and done and experienced so much it makes it hard to know what to expect “home”.
I do remember how quiet it is though, how removed our “last house before Africa” is from any sort of commotion or distraction.
Somehow, I don’t think we will go home to the same “last house before Africa” without the boys laughter, fights, endless scheming, goofy jokes and hilarious dancing.
Perhaps that’s why we stayed gone this long, to delay the moment when we had to go home and figure out how to live without them.
Perhaps we went to so many places, hoping one would jump up and grab us so we didn’t have to figure out how to make Anguilla “home” without the boys again.
It’s just so easy to find distractions when you’re hurting. So tempting to pretend and cover it all up with noise and stuff and activities and more noise until what needs to be dealt with is so far burried you can’t even hear it anymore.
Thank God for getting older.
Like an air bubble, that the stuff you try to cover up always – always – finds it’s way back to the top, except usually multiplied in it’s tenacity and impact.
Going home tomorrow…