After a week away I walked up to my turquoise front door and I took a picture. With hours of traveling behind me, after carrying tired kids and heavy suitcases through the airport, and because a week of unstable hotel life is like gorging yourself on everything exciting and exhausting, that door was a beautiful sight to behold.
I walked inside the house and the old, slightly ratty pillows, perfectly placed on the sofa, welcomed me with their happy sight.
The stained living room rug seemed to smile and cheer us all as we bustled in with our bags.
The kitchen counters that I never would have chosen and have never really liked were so gorgeous and welcoming to me that I may make friends with them after all.
I’m home.
I started a few loads of laundry, Mr. Fantastic watered the new grass in the backyard, the kids unpacked and goofed around.
Bedtime came and we all cozied up in the boys’ room for our family reading time. The Lady fell asleep and was carried off to her bed. I sang to the boys and kissed them goodnight.
Then I headed into the kitchen and opened the blessed forty-year-old cabinet that never stays open and began to make a cup of tea.
I nearly cried with joy as I sat down on my sofa (the one with the giant ink stain) and my hands cupped that tea with love and neediness.
When I come home I breathe a little easier, walk a little lighter, and hold the moments a little more carefully.
When I come home I remember that no road can ever lead us too far from what really matters.
When I come home I am relieved to find that I don’t ever really have be anything except myself.
When I come home I can make my tea and sleep in my bed and hold my husband’s hand and not worry about tomorrow.
Tomorrow may take us out and about, through dark tunnels and over vast mountains, on adventures through deserts and across vast seas, but today we are home.
And home is all I want right now.
Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home.
