Arriving Home - Sept. 11th

 

Upon walking into his home, Sam pulled back the curtains on the large bay window. The morning light now streamed through the window, casting a glowing haze, and illuminating the fine dust particles that were suspended in the air. Laying down on the couch — which was backed up to the window — he stared at the ceiling, considering his next move for the day. The sun quickly warmed the room, and this warmth put Sam at ease. He closed his eyes and began to drift off.

He awoke sometime later to find the sun had found a perfect angle to come in through the window and onto the couch where he lay. Beginning to sweat for the heat of the sun, he threw his arm over his eyes to try to shield his eyes but knew his best recourse was to simply get up. Grunting as he moved to a sitting position, he put his face in his hands, elbows on his knees. He was a little lightheaded and needed a moment to gather himself. Looking around his home, he began to survey and take stock of this moment in life.

On the one hand, he enjoyed the simple life has led, his home wasn’t cluttered with excessive objects. But it also left him wondering to what degree he had accomplished anything real. Sam wasn’t one to second guess himself, and thus far, he had avoided any real disaster in life, perhaps except his divorce. But that was her choice, and as far as Sam was concerned, he’d done all he could to make it work.

Sam’s home was simple. It was a two-bedroom, manufactured home that he had acquired by chance when a local couple lost work the week it was to be installed on their lot. With cash in the bank, Sam took it off their hands and had it placed on a piece of property he owned outside of town. As with many things in his life, it still remained unfinished. Because of the short notice in which he purchased it, he hadn’t time to put down the necessary foundation. Instead, he paid the driver to simply drop it on the lot with the intent of putting in the footing that next spring. That was five years ago.

Rising to his feet, he headed over to the kitchen to put together a meal for himself. The standard fare of scrambled eggs, diced potatoes, a few strips of bacon, toast with jam, and a cup of coffee. A hearty breakfast that was rarely deviated from. Even when he chose to have breakfast at the diner in town, it was the same meal. On a rare occasion, he might cook the eggs sunnyside up. But even after forty years of cooking the same meal, he had yet to actually acquire the skill to cook eggs as he chose and often time his sunny-side-up turned into scrambled eggs.

Being a man of simple tastes, he didn’t fuss over particulars. Eggs where eggs, the toast was toast, and coffee was coffee, that’s why he drank instant coffee. He had a coffee maker, but the whole process of setting it up was a bit more than he desired to do. Instant coffee was sufficient, and therefore the option he chose.