The most constructive part of the evening was talking to Frank. So many commonalities. Him I can trust.
I did IM Peter and speak to him for a half an hour. I told him I was tired. That was about an hour ago.
But as I sit here at my parent's kitchen table, typing these words..I can sit back and close my eyes. And I can picture, in my mind, the ghosts of the past, sitting around this table. Mom, looking blonder, looking twenty years younger, sitting in the chair I'm sitting in, and Laurie to her left, bitching about something, and Kerrie, dear Kerrie, to her right, always the peacekeeper. And Tommy, next to Laurie, and me, next to Kerrie, with my hair parted in the middle with wings and my skinny elbows leaning against the faux oak of the table. And Dad, to my right, looking grim after a day at school.
This house is so quiet. Not like mine, where there's always something going on at any hour of the day. I hear the refrigerator hum and the faint clucks of the kitchen clock. When I was younger, this house used to terrify me. It still terrifies me. I become 12-years-old again, when the sounds of a settling house at night would scare the bejesus out of me, and I would cower under my blankets. Will I do so again tonight? Probably.
This is freedom? Or is this a first step? Towards what? Away from what?
Lots to think about. Josie, are you thinking, too?