There's no place like home.

I mean it.

In the past several days I've run the gamut. I've spent hours and hours behind the wheel on seemingly endless highways. Spent a couple leisurely days with friends touring and lunching and chillin'. More time behind the wheel, then the hush of a hospital room and the wheeze of an 83 year old struggling for each breath. A blissful night reconnecting with him, both of us miles from home for two different reasons, but only a few hours from each other. How could I not go to him? His only remaining parent lay frightened in a hospital bed, and he was there to be her strength until hers returned. Where would he turn when he grew weary of being the strong one? So I went to him.

Now, here I sit... Surrounded by fleas and empty beer cans and the stale odor of cigarettes. Every year it's the same; I make hotel reservations, then cancel because I feel guilty, like the uppity northerner who thinks she's too good to stay in this old leaky house with the tarps on the roof and the housefly and flea infestations.

Last night, I concocted a plan in which a nonexistent emergency would tear me away, and I'd spend a peaceful, flea-free night in a hotel before heading home tomorrow.

The plan melted away in an instant when Brian - my 23 year old nephew and my reason for wanting to visit - came to say goodnight.

I can stick it out one more night for him.