At Home

I lifted the window shade and looked down. From the bright blue sky I could see the straight street blocks of the city below. We circled for landing and then I could see the familiar swirls of salt, algae and mud in the great lake that sits beside that very city. And off in the distance I could see the big, white “B” painted on the mountain beside my home.

Home?

Wasn’t I just there?

Yes. It’s true. Not more than 48 hours ago, I was sitting on a lawn chair while sea water slapped the dock below me, the wet air settling on my skin as subtly as the flood from a fire hose. At home.

But here I was, getting off the plane and I couldn’t find my phone fast enough. “I’M HERE!!”

She came rolling up to the curb and I couldn’t squeeze her tight enough. “Welcome home!”

We stopped for lunch and she asked, “Do you want to go in to eat or just go through the drive through?”

“Drive through please.”

I couldn’t get home fast enough.

It seemed like I’d never left, and yet I’d been gone nearly two months.

There we sat, side by side, on the blue denim couch, with our feet propped up, the blinds wide open, and the light pouring in. Sandwiches on the plates in front of us, fruit tarts in hand.

Everything smelled the same, tasted the same, felt the same.

Here at home.

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