Greetings from New Mexico.
I am the only one awake now. My parents are asleep in the master bedroom of this, their retirement house. My son is asleep in the living room, Bo Peep and The Princess are curled together like puppies in the guest room - slash- office they call "The Bear's Lair." (The Bear being my father.) Little Warrior is asleep in her pop up crib at the foot of my bed. (The Husband is back home, working another week, and undoubtedly taking advantage of going to sleep at a decent time.)
When I was, oh, in my early 20's, my parents retired, selling off my childhood home and purchasing an RV. They were full-time RVers for a while; a few years ago they picked this permanent home.
What is curious ... interesting ... is that wherever they go, the feeling of being safe and secure follows. I can remember staying with them in their RV in a tiny campground in Florida. There, on a little foldout couch, across from the door, I felt completely and utterly safe. Here, too. I have never lived in this house, or even this state. But I come here, and the cloak of safety encompasses me. I am home.
It seems corny to quote Robert Frost's, "When you have to go there, they have to take you in." But the words never get stale to me, nor does the next line, ""I should have called it Something you somehow haven't to deserve."
I don't have to be here. They don't have to take me in. But we greet each other with hugs and kisses, parent and child, grateful for the time we have together.
And I am home.