Elder is home for the summer.
How do I know?
Let’s see . . .
By the sofa that is now positioned four feet from the television and littered with video game controllers.
By the glasses marred with chocolate milk rings and scattered throughout my house.
By my tripping over boxes and books as I try to navigate my hallway.
By my doubled laundry pile.
And, most importantly, by the nightly ritual of him appearing at my bedside for a hug, accompanied by a dip of his head so I can drop a kiss on his blonde curls.
Elder is home.
Where he belongs.