The house that built me.

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When I left home I never thought my choice to return to it would be limited.

It was mine for the having: and no one would take that from us.

I close my eyes and think of home. Especially after eating something old and familiar—like watermelons and corn on the cob. Swedish Pancakes and dad’s Sabbath Morning Breakfast.

I hear my dad’s familiar foot steps… and I see a white cat.

Reality speaks a truth of the absences in my life. Things aren't the same.

I feel bewildered I want to find my way home. The home that my photographs and expectations hold. Ordinary life.

If you aren’t living you have nothing. But what is life? Circles of confused existence spinning off my expectations of crafts with my grandmother—and a love that lasts? I can not let go of that hope or I will lose my life.

Oscar died. It's kind of the last straw. It's like nothing is left the same. I suppose that is why I am working on fixing the barn. Because not everything can fall to shambles.

Do you remember Norman, my big fat goat? He was brown and tan and loved people. He thought he was a horse. We thought he might be pregnant.

Norman was the sweetest thing ever. He had these ears that were so expressive. He would stand on his feet “(kind of like Animal Farm) and lick me on the face. If he saw me walking towards the gate he would run so fast. He would let me put a harness on him and connect him to my little red wagon, and then he would let me connect him to a sled in the winter. He's gone too. But, he's been gone for about 15 years.

I suppose that is life. A rebuilding, dying, and rebirth and so on. But I don't like it.

My mom is crying about Oscar in my kitchen. I hate it. I hate it I hate it.

My mom used to say to me when I'd cry last year-- "The best is yet to come."

Is it?