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When I Come Home
When I am in my car, driving toward home, I cannot wait to get there. I sometimes feel the expression on my face run off like so much melting butter. My professional smiling face slides down into a more somber look. I am ready to cry - no, to bawl like a newborn calf searching its mother.
My exhaustion rears its tremendous head and I sag into the car seat, trying to keep my focus on the road ahead. I sigh and wonder why I keep going day in and day out. I keep it together long enough to turn into the alley at my house and ease my car into the garage stall. It fits like a finger in one narrow parcel of a glove.
I drag my tired body into my house. And there on my couch sits my spouse. He is waiting for me day in and day out. He has heated water for me and I quietly make a cup of tea. Together we sit sighing, and talking, and sipping.
We discuss small moments of our day, touch in a tentative way, and snuggle side by side to recover what the day has cost. We sigh and wonder why we keep going day in and day out.
Our spent bodies search for renewal in the touch, the tea, the you and me.