There's some kind of music going on.
It's not the usual instruments. It's the breadmaker, chattily grumbling to itself as it works, and my sister's thumping footfalls down the stairs*. It's my clinking spoon against the side of a bowl of chocolate ice cream, and the klickety-klicka of my dad's keyboard as he defrags after a long day of work. It's the chatter of my mom's movie in the background.
It's not any of these.
It's the smile playing around my mouth as I work, just waiting for someone to come in the room to share it. It's my sister's graceful ebullience, ready to enchant and amuse anyone who crosses her path. It's my dad's hidden smile - you can't see it when he's working, but as soon as one of his girls comes down to share something, he's ready. It's the soft energy coming from my mom at the end of the day, when she's tired and loves her family.
That's a little closer.
It's that there are four of us, in four separate rooms of the house, and somehow we're not separated. As soon as anybody walks into anyone else's sphere, they're welcomed. Your presence brings joy. I'm happy to see you. Coming from work and school, all back home at the end of the night. We're tired, but we're happy because we're home, and we're together. Together at opposite ends of the house? I don't know. Somehow it works.
It's being home. It's what home is.
It's love. That's all it is. That's everything.
That's the music. The soundtrack under everything here. It's love.
*You ask how someone so slender can make so much noise? It's the boots. My sister has these kickass boots. And she wears them everywhere. Actually, by this point, they've gotten their asses kicked, from being worn everywhere they are gradually being worn out, but she still wears them all the time.
family
