Home. 

I woke up this morning to the familiar rhythm of raindrops making their way through the trees, falling onto the dense blanket of pine needles and flattened grass. Drops rolling off the shingled overhang outside my childhood bedroom window. Wind and distant thunder. It will rain all day today, according to the weather app on my phone — a brief detour from days of sun and low humidity. I’ll take one day of this, the sound and smell of it immediately transporting me back 35 years to a rainy morning in 1980, lying in the same room, listening to the same sounds. 

I explainedthe notion of ‘returning home’ to The Who as we rolled over the state line into Massachusetts on Monday. “When you leave the place where you grew up, if your time there was good, you will always have a warm place in your heart for your home. I could see him smiling in the rear view mirror as I waxed nostalgic about red, white, and blue license plates and plentiful Dunkin Donuts drive-thrus. 

At The Who’s request, we spent the day in the city yesterday: the Public Garden, our favorite part. We took the train with my mother, meandered through the Common, rode the carousel, walked the perimeter of Frog Pond. We crossed Charles Street into the Public Garden, rode the swan boats, dropped dollars into the open guitar cases of musicians playing among the flowers, and called each one of the ducklings by name. 

And then Copley, because The Who wanted to see the finish line, a landmark he learned about for the first time just a few months ago as we watched our friend cross it via live stream on Marathon Monday. He asked about the placement of the bomb while we made our way down Boylston and we had a philosophical conversation about the death penalty, as the sentence had just been handed down. 

It was just the kind of day for our first full one here. The sun was plentiful and so was the shady respite. Today, though, it rains, which is just fine with me. 

  

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