A. B. Schwartzkopf

It’s a hard switch, going from the lush and vibrant Appalachian mountains to the dreary gray, and swampy flatlands of home. There isn’t a single blue shadow of mountain on the horizon anymore, but there are more hours of light and the hint of Lake Michigan’s scent on the breeze.

But in my first morning back, I’m enjoying the sight of my suburban backyard when I hear the kitchen sink squeaking. My smile falters.

Since when did the kitchen sink squeak?

Then I found myself frowning at the sink, feeling somehow left behind or out of place. My morning didn’t need the reminder that the house kept living without me present. It was also annoying to hear the high-pitched scratch of pipes every time someone needed water.

Even now, there are plenty of important things I could be doing instead of discussing the irritating state of the kitchen sink. Surely, there is a more profound topic I could discuss. But the kitchen sink wins this week. There was no way I could move forward without mentioning this somewhere.

But oh, don’t even get me started on how my bedroom was used for storage.

Until next time! Safe soaring!