home, sweet home, or is it?

I am not sure. Right, father and mother are there. So is my sister, her kids and various other people I am related to. But in the end: I have next to nothing to do with their lives. I just come to see them once a year. And understand less and less of them. Ok, my dad I get. He prepares to die. Slowly withdrawing to short naps in the middle of conversations, blocking out most of what is going on around him. Drawing pictures of landscapes and animals, 1.500 he has, and still counting. Klinging to his world view and his weird hope for a bodily resurrection in a worldly paradise to come. My mother endlessly worrying about health and how she will live once my father dies. My sister getting weary and weighed down with an underpaid job and three kids of four in the house still. Ah, I could go on for ever. The only thing giving me a sense of home at all are the ever towering mountains. And yet, I am glad to get away and back to what?

Zirbitzkogel, click=source

Geierhaupt, click=source