Homeward

"When are you coming home" the wolf that raised me (otherwise known as my mother) asked me for the hundredth time in a month. I tried to explain, again, that I was speaking to her from my home. Where I live now is my home. The lair that I was born and raised in no longer qualifies as "home" to me. I moved away for a reason, and no amount of mother's guilt (much more plentiful than mother's love) will make it home again. I guess she did not realize that she raised a roaming wolf and not one that was willing to stay in the same territory. I have no desire to go back to the den where I was whelped. I do not wish to here that the paterfamilias is not long for this world. He has been trying to die for three years, and I know that one of these times he will, but each time I have to be guilted by that story makes me feel a little less badly. Not that I wish for him to take his last bow, but his quality of life has to be very close to zero. I am sure he has a different view, and that is part of the problem. Him and I have always had different views on pretty much everything. Also, I have no desire to go home to the rest of the clan either. It seems to be a character trait of my family to think that when I open a book it is an invitation to start a conversation with me. There is a reason I am reading a book it is to attempt to avoid having to talk to anyone in the room. I like to read, it is the ONE thing that my father and I can agree on, of course we read wildly different stuff, but hey it is a start. Another lovely aspect of going "home" is the couch on which I get to sleep. It is not a fun time, so I get very little sleep, and then get to wake up and face the family in a foul mood to begin with. Then comes the meal, my grandmother (who has taken her last bow) could cook VERY well. The she-wolf not so much. I guess I should not complain I cannot cook either, but at least I do not bother to try. Perhaps, the cooking gene skips a generation or maybe two generations. Going "home" is like falling off the edge of the world. My parents have no computer, no internet, barely have cable, and my cell phone does not world there. It is like becoming a political prisoner, all ties with the outside world are cut off, and I am held incommunicado until I scale the wall i.e. get in my car, and make a break for it. I am just not a fan of "home" nor I am giddy over Thanksgiving, though you could never tell it by the looks of me or by the look on my doctor's face after I climb off the scale in her office. The small black thing I call a heart is certainly no longer at the "home" of my family. It is merely an exercise in frustration when I go back, and one day I suppose I should screw my courage up to the sticking point, and explain to the she-wolf that she did, much to her dismay, raise a lone wolf.