Home

    Halting, slow strains of classical music (a Pachelbel canon, I believe) sound out as Mom plays the parlor organ.  Her music takes her back in time to cherished, poignant memories.  When she attempts to tell me the particular association—whether it be her father’s favorite piano piece or what was sung at the last session of every music camp at Interlochen—she chokes up with emotion.

    To her it seems like I have been gone weeks instead of days.  The house smells like it, too, so my first task this morning is to scoop the kitty litter and sprinkle baking soda on the carpet around the litter box.  I will vacuum later.

    Though almost every bit of counter space is covered in the kitchen, the various items are arranged neatly.  (She did some organizing while I was gone.)  A grouping of honey, molasses, and corn syrup sits on one counter in front of two coffee makers, the toaster, and a blender.  Plastic mugs from my Magic Bullet are carefully placed amongst other groupings.  Sometimes a theme presents itself:  Folger’s single-serve “tea” bags next to Senseo coffee pods.  A random order prevails inside the pantry closet space:  stacked dish towels next to more coffee pods above rearranged baking items.  It doesn’t take too long to locate the cans of my Reliv nutritional supplements beside the dish towels, next to the baking items, and behind the coffee.

    It’s good to be home.  Someday the whole house will be organized according to my specifications, the clutter removed, the house a spacious, decorated sweep of wooden beams and white walls and open space.  But then the parlor organ will be silent, and I will miss Mom.