Sometimes when Jack and I are traveling, driving far from home, I imagine a house at the end of a long, winding country road.  A woman comes out onto the front porch, so very happy that we have arrived at long last.  We are home- not our home, but the “home” of  our collective imagination, of our subconscious.  She is wearing a flour-covered apron, with a multitude of pockets.  She is wiping her hands on a well-worn towel, and envelops me in an embrace– squeezing me into her warm ample bosom, her soft arms holding me just long enough in a loving hug.  She is an archetypal grandmother; not my actual grandmother, who raised me, and loved me with a ferocity unmatched by a mother bear for her own cubs (and who also watched the A-Team with a religious fervor, cheated at Scrabble, argued incessantly with my mother, and was ectomorphic–about as bony as humanly possible), but a grandmother who bakes with entire sticks of butter  and loads the table with the caucasian version of soul food.  A grandmother who never gets angry.  Who has eagerly awaited my visit, as Jack deftly maneuvered the winding, sometimes treacherous rural highways, a bit worried, but trusting that we would arrive safely into her waiting embrace, into her comfortable kitchen, into the love that she had in her heart the entire time- even before I was born, before I left home, before I met Jack and knew he was the man that would make me happy until the day the first one of us dies.

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