home (or whatever)

I'm staring at a flatscreen monitor in the suburbs.

When I arrived here there was a note on the dining room table:

Welcome home (or whatever), Rachel. Love, Mom.

My mom put dried mangoes and pickles beside the note. I like dried mangoes and pickles.

I am exhausted. Trying to squeeze every bit of fun and every moment with friends and as much cleaning as possible out of the final days in PDX, doesn't leave one with much sleep time. Conviniently, there isn't much to do here, so I'll be sleeping.

I don't live in Portland anymore. I got teary as I slipped my old house key through the mail slot. My dad, who helped me move everything across state lines, sensing the importance of the moment, took photos.

My mom's birthday is in a few days. I came up with a gift idea on the drive home. It's a book. The thought of going to the Barnes & Noble here, not my blessed Powell's, depresses me.