Travis's House

I have been crabby all day. It started with a "Why can't I access my e-bill" utilities battle that made me late for an important meeting. I know, we all have those days. But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

Fast-forward to this evening when I met the paralegal in charge of my landlord's affairs and we did the final walk-through of the house we rented last year. She asked about the house we bought, I told her, she thought for a second and said "Oh, Travis's house." We talked about Travis for a minute (I only know him by posthumous reputation), then parted and I headed to the grocery store.

Some [really jerky] guy did one of those obnoxious parking-lot cut-offs. The kind where car A (me) is traveling down the aisle while car B ([jerky guy]) cuts through and does a near-miss. It is a lucky thing that I didn't encounter him in the store, because I had a loud diatribe prepared for him. It was about the development and propagation of [jerky guy] cultures, and how I'd just moved AWAY from one of those places and I was by God not going to live in another one. I was ready to let him have it, which is completely not what I would normally do. But I've been pretty crabby today.

I paid for the five things I went in for, and drove home. To Travis's house. I put things away, started wiping down the counters, and realized that while this will always be Travis's house, it will also always be my house. For the first time in my 40-some years, I'm not looking around the corner to see what else, what more interesting place, is waiting. I'm home. And suddenly, like a quiet breeze through the kitchen window, I'm not crabby anymore.