The year Paul was in Iraq our truck, which he normally drove, was parked almost completely unused, in our driveway.
Everyday, when I came home, I would drive up Mountain View Drive and as I came up over the hill, I would see the truck and for the tiniest millisecond I would think, "Paul is home from work! Yea!" and then just as fast as my little synapses could fire I would remember that Paul was 10 timezones away. And I would be sad.
I hated that and I fell for it every single time for 354 days. AUUGG!
I had forgotten about that until Paul went to St. George last week for his mom's wedding.
Saturday morning when I came home from my time with the cows and honeysuckles, I came around the corner and saw Paul's truck in the driveway and for that very small moment I was happy that he was there and that it was Saturday and that he didn't have to work and could stay home and play with us . . . but then, of course, I was immediately disappointed when I remembered he was only just starting back from Utah.
I'm not sure what the worst part of that was; that it felt so familiar, that it was distressing, or that I just wasn't expecting it.
After an eventful beginning and a long drawn out ending, Paul arrived home, safe and sound yesterday.
"Paul's home! Yea!"