Yesterday morning, despite the fact that I hadn’t yet finished paying my sleep debt, I woke up early because of my east coast tuned body clock. I lay quietly in bed, listening to the rain fall, the cat crunch kibble and the garbage truck roar down the narrow street on which sits my parents house. After ten minutes, I crawled out of the quilt covered bed and lightly walked downstairs to pee. I didn’t close the bathroom door all the way, and so I was followed in by a very happy dog. She stood in front of me, her wildly wagging tail banging the cabinet under the sink and she wriggled and danced excitedly. Her missing pack member had returned.

I tip-toed back upstairs and went and crawled into bed with my mom. The cat was curled up at the bottom of the bed, and the windows were open, making the room cool and airy. We snuggled and talked sleepily for an hour, enjoying the rarity of being in the other’s physical presence. Every fifteen minutes or so she would say, “Are you sure you can’t go back to sleep? I’m going to worry about your driving out to Walla Walla on so little sleep.” I would assure her that I’d be fine (which I was) and we continue our rambling conversation.

Restless, I went back downstairs. My sister was breathing steadily and deeply in her bed, and I climbed in next to her sprawled body. Under her mountainous down comforters, I fell back asleep for about fifteen minutes, in the bed that was mine during high school.

It was good to be home.