The ground is littered with relatives. Most everyone made it back to California for my grandpa’s birthday. The walls are warm with the presence of company. My callouses are toughening up again from my guitar strings. It feels good to be home.
Happy birthday, America. Happy birthday, Grandpa.
I’m having trouble sleeping. It’s restlessness, I know it. We all know why we came back, but no one speaks of the elephant in the room. I find comfort in knowing that this insomnia is collective.
This year, there were no fireworks. We had a quiet dinner with family all around. In a lot of ways, I couldn’t be happier.