Blame it on the Sentimental Christmas Music

Three-and-a-half hours on the road through sprawling Texas roads with a certain collection songs playing that help me pretend my life has a soundtrack and I. AM. HOME.

College has a whole different lingo, pace and rhythm. College is like one of those indie songs that you hear starting out really slow and a little unsure of where it’s going but at the end it builds to these swelling notes and crescendos that wrap you up in unexpected musical bliss.

Home is different. Home is like a worn-in melody that you’ve been singing along to for years, but that you can’t get enough of still. Home is a warm classic, it’s a little slower maybe but it’s a greatest hits compilation that still sounds new and it’s that one song you can’t skip over.

Home, for me, means Mama’s homemade cooking, using any excuse to light the fireplace because I am obsessed, various projects in the garage with my Dad and clutch-your-side-laughing-stories told by him and my Brother. Home means a huge family that is blood-related and otherwise, and Mama inviting everyone over for a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Home means Grandparents and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins and dark chocolate and cheese trays and setting the table for twenty. Home means dance parties in the kitchen. Home means a pug who snores so loudly.

And though I can’t fit all of that on a Hallmark card, yes, home feels all sorts wonderful.

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