It’s Christmas Eve, his first with the family in six years, and he’s welcomed back like the Prodigal Son. His parents wrap him in hugs and countless kisses. They remind him they love him unconditionally and how happy they are that he finally returned that and his room is ready any chance they can, because for a few days they can. He’s served paper plates full of love with hot meals prepared for him and the sink’s full of dirty dishes, while they watch…
I write to remember what I might forget and to understand things I don’t.