I am running late to therapy when, in anticipation of a train, a sign lights up: No right turn, which is exactly where I’m headed. The boom shifts, the gate drops, and I put the car in park. As the freight cars roll past, the sound of metal wheels on a jointed track falls into a pace to match the rhythm of a favorite song on the radio, the lyrics like a siren: home, home, home, and I am there. Home is holding the hand of my daughter on our way to lunch after a few hard days. Home is my arm around my son as he faces away from me, a hug on the run (I’ll take it), my cheek resting on his back. Home is an honest conversation. Dinner for two in the kitchen. A walk together on a summer night. Home is boarding a plane to see family after too long an absence. Waiting for the train, breathing in what is mine, letting go what isn’t, there is more room to notice. To listen to the rhythms of a song and appreciate the road block for the moment, knowing everything around me has purpose.
