Moving Home

"You can always move home," her mother's voice sincere, not angry, even hopeful

"But will we have to speak?"

"What?" her word more spit out than released.

"Will we always have to talk?"

Mom's happy, hopeful smile now screws in a tight twist across her face.

"No, not always, but mute co-existence will be uncomfortable."

"But each time we pass in the hallway I don't want to have to feel like
I always have to say hi."

Her mother's expression that of a woman whose daughter suddenly sprouted
two additional heads. "I don't understand what you mean."

"I mean, if I'm watching TV and go down the hallway during a commercial
and you or dad approach from the opposite direction, we're close enough to touch.
Do we pass by like the other isn't there, or do we smile, nod and say hello
because all this acknowledging could get old."

With a dismissive shake of her head Mom tidies up the kitchen. I" don't see it
being a problem. One hi a day is fine, two max.

She wanted to believe her mom but lingering doubts were bolstered by the
thought that living life as a permanent greeter at some social function was
cause for concern.

That she felt a stranger in her own home escaped them both.