It is the last day of my vacation and as I lay in bed, with morning breaking and all that James Harriott small village misty wonderfulness, I gulp.
And an unshakeable and unprounceable sadness mixed with fear mixed withother nots has come over.
I don't want to leave home.
Not this physical place where my parents made a house for themselves.
But this feeling.
This belonging.
This being a part and parcel of this unit.
The irritations, the friendships, the smiles, the endurances, the fights, the inside jokes, the shared lives.
Posts ago, I said I find people who call their parents their best friends irritating, I think maybe I spoke too hastily.
I just don't want to leave home. And I don't want to stop being their eldest.
I think maybe i also have the fear that the joy and love they have created for the three of us may be hard to reproduce on my own with the boy.
What if we are unable to produce the kind of environment our parents created for the sibs & I?
What if they don't love us as much as the sibs & I love the parents?
The reality of living has set in, and I just want to curl with my parents on the sofa and not let go