Although sun has gone down, and the walkway lights have not responded to my motion as the box said they would, I detect the faint scent of skunk discharge, and I know I’m home. Oh, I realize that the smell of skunk is a common phenomenon on this part of the earth, but it’s just the first indicator confirming that I’ve driven into the correct corresponding driveway for my dwelling.
I feel my way around to the trunk of my filthy car and open it to gather the bags contained therein. These bags contain sustenance for the offspring that I am required by the laws of man: state, federal, and moral, to sustain. My leg hits hard sharp metal, and then I’m sure I’m home. It’s a bicycle belonging to my almost 6 foot tall fifteen year old spawn who will tell me he’s hungry before I’ve crossed the threshold. I will assess the damage to my support hose once I can safely unburden myself of this load of groceries. Another step, and I narrowly avoid a longboard. That is the deciding factor that leads me alter my gait. I forego the super model stride that is indigenous to my nature, and take on the glide of a speed skater. This low crouch with sweeping foot patterns allows me to knock out of my path any additional obstacles, while maintaining foot contact with the ground at all times. I feel a swell of pride in my decision as I kick a volleyball, tennis ball, and a bocce ball tomato out of my path. I kick the bottom step, and make my way up the remaining four steps to my back door.
With a turn of the key, and a hard push to open the door, the larger of my two dogs is upon me. She checks my tonsils for strep throat. I assume that’s what she’s doing, because as she expresses her happiness at my return from work, I have a flashback: a rubber gloved doctor with a long cotton swab scraping cells off the back of my throat. My dog has the all cells she needs, and releases me. I roll over onto my hands and knees to pick up the groceries that are scattered on the floor. That is when I notice the lifeless body on my sofa. My CPR training comes back to me in a flash. I leap across the room, grab my son by the shoulders and shake vigorously to check for consciousness. (I know that this is not exactly the Red Cross CPR procedure, but there is a bit of an adrenaline rush in play.) He opens one eye, and responds: “What’s your problem?”
If I could only answer that one question, I would crack the code that has left me pondering the meaning of life—my life for these past clusters of decades. What is my problem? It could be any of a multitude of experiences. Let’s review my day. It started with the sound of my alarm clock at 3 am. At which point I rose to take care of two dogs, feed one lizard, make myself coffee, and iron my shirt. I then showered, dressed, put on make up, and spilled said coffee down the front of my freshly ironed shirt when my hand miscalculated the distance to my mouth. That is when my “problem” started today. That was fifteen hours before the question was posed. I could continue along in this vein, thus shedding more light on my “problem,” but that’s all the time I’ve allotted myself for complaining today.
The Daily Post, September 21, 2015, Daily Prompt: Home Turf~ Name five things in your house that make it a home.<a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/home-turf/”>Home Turf</a><a href=”https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/home-turf/”>Home Turf</a>