Nothing Compares

The only place I really wanted to go today was to my parents.  I think their place may be the safest one in my world right now.  When I'm feeling under attack by the intrusive thoughts that are so hard to push away, it is automatic to go to my mom and dad's, much like running into the house with a fresh scrape after falling off my bike when I was little.  It's...instinctive.

The comfort begins the moment my dad opens his door.  His face fills the frame like a blessing.  He beckons me in, patting my hair and commenting on the sudden downpour outside.  "Are you cold?  Did you wear a jacket?  You're gonna have to start wearing something on your head, child.  It's getting cold out there."

Just like that, I am said child again.  All will be well because my parents say it will be.  They always make it so.  They are powerful that way.  It is a beautiful way to feel.

"Edna, your baby is here."  he calls down the hall.

I can hear Mom question him.  "What baby?"

"How many babies you have?  You have some other baby out there I don't know about?"  he teases, smiling broadly.

If I've never said this before, let me share it now.  It is awfully good to be the baby.

Mom comes out into the living room where we settle into our accustomed spots:  Dad in armchair, Mom and I on the couch- the space between us empty where Cory used to sit.  Mom looks me over, I'm sure running all sorts of crisis analysis in that sharp mind of hers:  weight, eye circles, cleanliness, level of dishevelment.  That woman misses nothing.  Like as not, a question about what I've eaten last and if I'm hungry or thirsty is thrown in for good measure.

Dad having just settled comfortably into his chair, hops up, as if on a spring, to stoke a fire, and urges me to come sit close and get warm.

Don't you want to go to my parent's house?

Obediently, I perch on the edge and let my back bake a little.  It feels so good.  After a couple minutes of Jacob reports, I leave my spot, and go to crouch beside my father's armchair, and lean into his shoulder.  He chuckles at me, "Well, now..."  I just lean for awhile.  This is exactly what I came for.

After a bit, I leave his side, and cross the room.  Quite frankly, I want my mommy.  Not feeling strange in the slightest, I drape my forty-one year old body across her, ending with my head in her lap.  I close my eyes, and the patting begins.  She pats my arm and my shoulder.  She strokes my hair.

Comfort unparalleled.