About a home and no home, and blood on the pillow... I was driving home after a dramatic tooth extraction when I saw a friend of mine. I hoped a friendly “Hello” would cheer me up, so I stopped. She pointed at the shopping bags in the open trunk and at her husband chatting with their neighbor. “He always talks to everybody instead of helping me,” she complained. Irritated, she jerked a plastic bag that tore apart and continued, “Sometimes I think I would be better off without him.“ As oranges rolled down the driveway, her husband interrupted his conversation and hurried to gather the errant fruit. The scene reminded me of the unwritten rules in my family. If one of us had a mishap— like pouring something out on the floor, throwing up, or shattering glass into pieces—the others immediately came to clean it up, in order to soothe that misfortune. That was one of the things that made my home a home.
Since I was feeling the pain from my dental work and the anesthesia’s relief was wearing off, I didn't want to start any debates, so I bid her goodbye. Awaking from pain that night, I noticed my pillow was red from blood. I looked at it for a moment and subconsciously waited for someone to hand me a pain pill or change the pillowcase for me. But my house was breathing emptiness. I didn't know what hurt more: the wound in the jaw or in the soul. Is home like a healthy tooth? Can it be that we don't value it enough until we miss it?
