Our first night in Georgia, we got in later than expected. A little after midnight. Saturday night. Tired drivers, tired kids. Hungry drivers, hungry kids. We parked the moving van in the driveway and set out for some grub. But everything was closed

• No pizza.
• No burgers.
• No fast food chains.
• Nada.

We finally found a Waffle House, because there is always a Waffle House in Georgia. And you never have to worry about Waffle House being closed, because HaHaHa you silly goose, Waffle House never closes.

As we piled into the restaurant (into two booths, because WH doesn't accommodate parties of six or more very easily), we snuggled close to each other. My youngest daughter scrambled into my lap and my middle daughter put her head on my shoulder.

I looked over to the next booth, and my mom and my husband were laughing at an unheard joke my older two kids made. I caught my husband's eye and he smiled and gave me a thumbs-up.

I didn't particularly want waffles that night, we got lost on our way back to the apartment, and it took us until dawn to get all of the beds set up. As I drifted off to sleep while the sun rose, I heard my son say from his room "Waffle House, Foreverrrrrrrrrrr!"

And then I felt something like joy.

illustration: Holly Exley

WOOD SORREL/JOY

This post is part of a Blogging A To Z series where I write a new, personal story almost every day (except Sundays). The theme is the hidden messages: the language of flowers.