Two flights, five burgers at the Atlanta TGI Friday’s airport location. A bag of gummy Lifesavers, and of course, the real lifesavers: four headsets, an iPad and two iPhones with digital movies. One hour’s drive, and we are home.
By home, I mean. HOME. Not Iowa, the place I grew up. I mean: here. Connecticut. Where I am with him and them and our place which is.
It’s only a minor revelation to realize that home is where the heart is. But, after years of wondering:
where do i belong?
it sure is nice to hear the answer ring like a bell inside.
We were driving down East Main, and I pointed out to the kids how many more trees there were here. I’m always pointing things out to them.
“Ahhh,” I heard myself say, “It’s nice to be home.”
It’s nice to be away, away enough to feel missed and to feel the missing.
This morning, on autopilot, I crossed the Housatonic — not the Mississippi — and went about my day.
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