Waiting to be picked up

When I was little I went to a babysitter named Iris. She lived on Regent. She was married to Gary and had a daughter named Holly who at the time was in her teens. I wanted to be just like her—just like “Howie.” Iris had a dog named Benson, and she made buttered noodles (elbow macaroni and straight-up butter—still one of my comfort foods) and egg salad sandwiches (Sick! Still won’t eat ’em.) Because I didn’t wet my pants, she let me take naps on her bed while the other kids had to sleep on the floor on mats. My memories of Iris and my time there are quick, unrelated snapshots. None are particularly long or complete. They don’t make stories with ends or beginnings. They’re just unique images and smells and sounds.

One of my memories is kneeling on the couch in the front room, elbows on the back of it, peering through the sheer curtains waiting…watching…for mom in a white station wagon. I don’t remember mom ever picking me up—although she must have. I just remember waiting for her on that couch. Sometimes it'd be dark outside (must have been winter) and sometimes it was still light.

That image came to mind today as I am once again that little girl waiting. Mom and dad are currently in the air on their way across the country to visit me and B in our new digs!!! I’m 30 years old, and yet I’m eager, expectant, and excited to be with my parents.

Maybe they’re peering out the plane window, waiting for me to come pick them up in my silver station wagon.

I'm on my way...off to LAX...