Rich. The presence of my brother and his wife surrounding my son and I is rich. It saved us and although I recoil at times, I, in my starved state of solitude, have been trying to connect again. It’s a foreign familiarity. Family. How I’d dreampt of this so often, never believing it could be true. Any distance now would be upon me, because I see the earnest struggle in their efforts to welcome us into their home. Having been homeless and displaced for eight months now, my teenage son and I found we could no longer survive without them. The generous, and what I sadly had misconceived as an empty, dutiful offer, is now the actual table where I sit this morning, slowly, and with a hint of lingering sadness sip this dark rich coffee. The very sadness that has strangled my self confidence now steeps and slowly seeps away, mocking me like these grackles outside. Their annoying laughterous crowing teases me, taunts me, telling me you’ll never make it. Yet I see myself surrounded by beauty, generosity, sacrifice, and compassion. Memories of our childhood bounce throughout the room, laughter booms and resonates in my unreasonable reasoning. Am I home? I miss my first born more than I can bear. My granddaughter now 1600 miles away appears in my imagination. I squint and sigh as I rub the sleepy confusion away, and slowly sip my coffee now lukewarm in foreign familiarity.