To say things have changed would be putting it mildly. I came home alone tonight after taking myself to a surprise movie outing. And by home, I mean my house. And by "my house", I mean the one I have owned now for three-and-a-half years with my wife in a far-flung northwest suburb of Houston, over 30 minutest from the bustling and thriving city I used to call home. My new city is named Tomball and is replete with a repurposed train depot and cute, antique-filled old town drag. My wife's name is Lisa.
While dutifully comparing the matinee and evening prices from the app on my phone, I inadvertently purchased a ticket to The French Dispatch, the newest film from Wes Anderson, a director I find uniquely and wonderously creative. While I was not enthralled with this particular show, it did stir ripples on the waters of my soul that have not experienced creative expression in quite some time.
And there they were. Boots that were just purchased two days ago for the cutest little six year old girl who wants nothing more in this world than to draw pictures, play Barbies and one day be a horse trainer.
My world has changed completely from the days of sitting alone or with a friend at the nearest Starbucks while nursing a mocha and posting the photos I took earlier and blogging about the mundane. Now mundane involves bedtime routines, walking to school a block away, and paying property taxes. Lots of property taxes. As I walked in the door of the house where I'm greeted with a gleeful cry of "DAD!", two versions of myself met across a decade of time and became friends and I suddenly began to want to write again.
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