Recuperating

After ten days of family squeezing lovingly and snugly around dining tables and breakfast nooks and couches of all shapes and sizes and colors, our house feels quite empty.  

There are a variety of seating options, but none of them include a view of a grandkid being a grandkid.

No one has asked me to sing Baby Shark or Old MacDonald all day.

I have not covered anyone in a ball pit nor watched my son and granddaughter discuss fantasy novels.  

I've cooked for one instead of nine, and I knew exactly what and how much to make.

The travel was easy but the altitude continues to surprise us .  We're tired and content and just a little bit lonely.  I've got thoughts about cultural appropriation and BlueSky and what old means, but tonight I'm going to review the photos and the memories and pretend that they are all still right near by.

As he got off the plane 20 hours later than planned, Giblet's only comment was I don't like being far away from Baby HoneyBunny.   

Neither do I, kiddo.  Neither do I.