An Ode to the Alaskans

I'm back already.

You see, I'm going through withdrawal.

People withdrawal.

After living on my own for three years, I've become accustomed to solitude. But solitude doesn't always sit well with me, especially after a summer replete with good company. My brother Andy, his wife, and their four kids came back to Nanticoke for a nice long visit this summer for the first time since we said goodbye to them two years ago. The miles between New York and Alaska are too many to be traversed easily. Many of my July evenings were spent in the Little Yellow House Where I Grew Up, whose every nook and cranny this summer was filled brimful with the paraphernalia of a traveling family, and an eclectic one at that: suitcases, miniature poodles, conure parrots. You name it, it was living in some corner of the house... Evenings were largely spent simply enjoying Being. Being content, being with one another, being known. And far too often, being sat upon and teased mercilessly by all six feet and two inches of my sixteen-year old nephew.

And now the discomfort of transition is upon me. You see, I don't have any real live people living in my apartment to just Be with me until we feel like it's time to sleep.

I miss the suitcases and the poodles and the conure parrots.

I miss my jolly, loud, brother whose greatest joy is still picking on me, I think.

I miss the sister-in-law who somehow managed to keep the chaos in check (most of the time).

I miss the niece who has more attitude in her right earlobe than I had in the whole of me during the entirety of my teenage years.

I miss the niece who I understand because we are alike, poor dear.

I miss the nephew who is the youngest, and alas, doesn't stray far from the stereotype. [But I think he'll get over it.]

And I even miss the nephew who sits on me. You see, this particular nephew is awfully nice (even when he's sitting on you).

So as I sit here in my empty apartment (I sound pathetic...), I think of you all.

And I love you fiercely.