It took me twenty minutes from my apartment to home.
As I pulled up, my dog, according to my dad, was helping him put on his shoes. I threw a sincere compliment at his haircut as I walked in to hug my mom, who held onto an odd energy of nervousness and pure joy.
We made three attempts to leave, having to turn the car around each time to grab things my mom leaves in the house. Camera, cell phone, a change of clothes.
My mother and I sat in the first row. My father, dozing off 10 aisles back to the right behind us, along with 79 others wearing white t-shirts.
Fast forward the message that was completely not in English and I’m holding a plastic bag with my dad’s shoes and wet clothes.
As my dad prayed at the dinner table, my God just made some shit go full circle, an ongoing process that has taken eleven years to complete.
And I’m at peace, thinking of creative ways to iron out my creases.
Like this:
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