I think I am ready to admit I need to be here, at home. Here, where things are rustic and doors are solid wood and the key for the front door is an old-fashioned thing, the doorknob black and taking a little extra push to secure the latch. To go upstairs and sort through all the old things, the ancient postcards, the stuff stored away. I look at the photos I took of the rooms so I could plan what I would keep and what I would not. It seemed a good organizational idea then. Now it seems more a daunting task. But there is a peace in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse – and a piece of me.