Callin' me back to where it all begins.

So it’s happened. No, we’re not pregnant. I’m not knocked up, yet, but we’re in a comfortable place and finally relaxed in our new home. We did it. While we’d already done it by moving in, we were not yet living in our new home. We are now living and experience life and all her sunshine and shadows while again growing into each other and laughing at random things. The silliness has returned to our marriage. We are again what we used to be and no longer stressed over every new box we turn around to find. So what if I still haven’t located my box of underwear that I hid from the movers? So what if Mr. Husband can’t find the second sock to all of his single socks that are strung out and lonely in his new empty sock drawer. So what if our underthings have gone away. We are no longer concerned and are smiling with blinders on and falling into each other while waiting for the rain.

It’s supposed to rain, they say. The next few days are supposed to bring rain. Mr. Husband and I are waiting on pins and needles for the expected honey-colored rain that we assume will fall from the sky in buckets of golden foolishness. It will be our very first rain in the new house. We imagine we’ll sit on the upper porch and laugh into every raindrop as we take in the great wonder of nature spilling onto our very first house and splashing us with all its middle-of-the-week-wonder. We’ll make a poem out of every breath and stare into each other’s eyes with sparkly marshmallows that drip from the fire of our yesterdays. We'll eat regrets off of each other's linen table napkins as we scream into cardboard boxes and listen for paper hats to call our names. We'll be one boring new age poem after another. Saturday will sit up from her bed of shaved glass and shake her frown at us until we sweep sentiment under the neon moon. Green will climb uphill with feathers for eyeballs and turn his arms akimbo staring blindly into the pizza of his soul. Suffice it to say, we are two people who seriously love the rain to the point of not being real. So we'll go to our drippy world of raindrops ....

And then we’ll come back to reality and images that make sense. We’ll be solid and real again. We’ll stand still in our new house and realize there is still much to do. But until then, we are taking a much needed break. This evening, we went to VinItaly at B&A Warehouse in downtown Birmingham. There were over 175 different wines to taste from Italy. It was all Sangiovese, Aglianico, Dolcetto, Cortese, and Nebbiolo. Tart wines with grapes with names that roll off your tongue and are unforgiving. They stab you and take your money when you’re not looking. Give me California and her sweet peppery full flavor—I’d rather not be bitter. While we didn’t enjoy this as much a Pinot Camp (which was much more fun to say due to the potential shock value on the listener’s end), it was a nice relaxing evening where we went, we tasted, and we got slightly buzzed. See, you cannot drink the wines. You’d be plastered while not quite halfway around the room. We sip and we toss what we do not want.

We laughed as we drove home, making Italian mafia-like voices for every angry grape we encountered. We drove with a lightness that we’ve not really had for the past three weeks as I’ve been wound up tighter than a ball of angry spiders and Mr. Husband has been worrying more than a groundhog who’s only found cement beneath his feet. We were out of place. We are finding home again. Home is within each other and with each other. We raced home to watch the most boring presidential debates that promise to be exciting (gets us every time) and sipped more wine and ate Boursin with fresh French bread. We settled into each other like one big sigh that reminds us that we’re back where we once belong. We're back where it all begins.