Homesick

My kids walking through the Tatsuda's parking lot in 2019.

This morning I woke up thinking about working at Safeway.

Not casually.

Strategically.

I mentally walked through the store,

like I was casing the place.

Deli?

Hard no.

Meat department?

Absolutely not.

Produce?

Nope.

Starbucks? Pharmacy? Stocking? Dairy? Frozen?

Management? Paperwork?

No. No. No. No. And definitely no.

By the end of my imaginary tour,

I had narrowed it down to floral and front end.

Then I kept going.

Set schedule.

Strict break times.

Clocking in.

Clocking out.

Possibly working until midnight.

And I… stopped.

Because the only position I’d actually want is one where I wander the aisles talking to everyone.

Where I sing happy birthday when someone mentions it’s their birthday.

Where I fix what’s broken.

Where I float between departments solving problems.

Where I get to make the whole place better.

Where I come and go as needed.

Where I care deeply and it matters.

And then it hit me.

I’m not looking for a job at Safeway.

I’m homesick.

Homesick for a home that no longer exists except in memory.

Six years ago today, everything changed.

The landslide didn’t just take a building.

It ended an era.

A rhythm.

A way of being in the world.

I didn’t just work at a grocery store.

I belonged to something living.

How lucky am I

to have shared something so rare

with my dad

and with an entire community?

Most people never get to build something that woven into a town’s daily life.

I did.

And even though it’s gone —

the belonging was real.

The love was real.

The impact was real.

Maybe that’s what I’m really waking up to.

Not Safeway.

But gratitude