Crying dogs and sleeping cats

I got into Portland last night a little after midnight local time, smack dab in the middle of what is normally my period to be deep in REM sleep.  My mom my picked me up in my dad’s car, forgetting about the eight four-foot-long fluorescent tubes in the trunk.  They made for interesting luggage arrangements but I took them as a pleasant reminder of my parental quirks. 

I walked into the house and the dog unleased screams of joy and excitement, the most human noise she is capable of making.  Her happiness upon seeing me is one of my favorite things about returning home to Portland.  I was running on borrowed energy at that point, but wasn’t able to get to bed until I gave my mom the three handbags I had brought from my closet and the reading glasses I got for her at Loehmann’s. 

I climbed into the bed I slept in during my teens for the first time in almost two years, it having been occupied by my sister for my last three visits, and exhaled deeply.  It took me more than half an hour to calm my busy mind and travel-jangled body, but when I finally found my sleep, it enveloped me whole. 

I woke this morning to my sister’s cat on the pillow next to my head, a cool breeze coming off the deck and the promise of a quart of raspberries from the three bushes in the backyard.  It’s good to be home. 

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