Six Days, Seven Nights

I spent my week in all too familiar places.

I spent my week in West Roxbury. We had all just congregated two months ago in the exact same place. Same church. Same cemetery. This time it was to pay our respects to the Buckley matriarch. It was an honor to be asked to read the first reading. It was from the book of Sirach. I finally came to understand the meaning of a funeral as a celebration of someone’s life.

I spent my week getting lost in Medford trying to find my cousin’s apartment, despite being vaguely familiar with the area. My sister lived just down the street in Somerville while attending Harvard graduate school last year. All the cousins within a 5-year age range of me were there. We watched Palin call McCain a maverick. And then we spent the next hour on YouTube watching her “greatest hits.” We talked about how it was too bad that we all live in Massachusetts where, let’s be honest, our vote is much less important. We’ll basically just be piling on.

I spent my week on the couch. I watched baseball. I watched baseball again. And again. Evan Longoria hit two bombs in his first two at bats. We lost a playoff game to the Angels for the first time since I was four months old. It didn’t end up mattering. I spent my Saturday afternoon like every other autumn Saturday since I remember Rick Mirer scrambling and throwing to the corner of the end zone for a two-point conversion to beat Penn State in the snow. I’ll have to Google what year that was (edit: 1992, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i5qfWhTP-Ek). My dad was in his usual spots, sitting in front of the fireplace instead of on furniture, or standing and watching while leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen between his pacing. I spent my Sunday watching the Patriots struggle on all sides of the ball for the first time since Drew Bledsoe had his torso crushed by Mo Lewis. They still somehow won.

I spent my week playing wiffleball. John was home on leave from Afghanistan. We teamed up again for the first time in years when met up with my brother to play. It still wasn’t quite the same with Kevin still missing from the usual foursome.

I spent my week in the Hanlon’s kitchen. Where Mrs. Hanlon used to make me and Kevin grilled cheeses and chocolate milk. I talked with Mr. Hanlon about everything and anything. He’s doing great with his recovery and really hasn’t changed at all. Except well, maybe his stance on Bush. He says I’m getting tall, just like every other time I’ve seen him in the last five years. John hasn’t changed either. Like when he walked in with a “400 Facts About Chuck Norris” book and showed me all the lines he thought were hilarious.

I spent my week on my bed with my Fender. It hadn’t been touched in seven weeks. It was much easier to play than the acoustic I am borrowing from my neighbor in Cabarete.

I spent my week eating Dominos, Subway, a huge turkey dinner, and Mama Celeste pizzas. I didn’t make it to McDonald’s. Talk about a disappointment.

That’s basically how I spent my week at home.