We're on our way home, so to speak. I mean, we're going to the home we still own in Cincinnati. It's strange to think about being there, and although I'm excited to see my lovely house, it won't the same. My mom (who is the consummate mom) lent me her suitcase and packed it with three towels.
Three towels. I can't believe it. I have to pack towels to go to my own house.
That's, of course, because most of our stuff is here. A shell of that sweet house remains in Cincinnati -- some glasses, a few bottles of wine in the wine cabinet, some of our older pots hanging from the pot rack, etc.
I briefly thought how great it would be to cook a huge, fancy dinner on my powerful Viking stove. But I realized we have no food in the fridge and most of my spices are here.
Yes, I'll be glad to be visiting gool ol' Herbert Avenue, our first home, but it surely won't be the same.
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