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My tan is fading. My memories are not.

I wasn’t going to blog about today. I was going to notice it and observe it privately and let it flow on the way time does. But then it overflowed into conversations. It made itself known. Today I have been home for a month. It still doesn’t feel like home.

I still want to know what’s going on in Kingston and which schools are leading the high school athletics championships (Go Blue!) and if the smog from the dump fire has dissipated. I still read the Gleaner, not the Times-Colonist. I want to be warm to the bone and to buy jerk chicken, not make it. I want to wear sundresses and sandals and …

I am also grateful. I am grateful for lunch today with a sun-soul-sister who affirmed that my dreams are worthy ones and that it’s the right time for me to be pursuing them. I’m grateful for friends who’ve seen my bumpy landing and put out loving cushions to make it softer. I’m grateful for every moment my sons spend with me. And I’m grateful for all the space I’ve had to flounder and ride the return-roller-coaster.

There have been blessings here in every one of the days I’ve been back. I see them and know I am loved and cherished and that whatever comes next will be the right thing.

Today was just one of those days. A milestone that isn’t. A marker of time passing. The wrong day to listen to certain songs. The right day to focus on what is …

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