I’m home again. I was in San Francisco, and now I’m not. I pulled into my driveway at 8:30 last night, left my suitcases in the car, and made my way back to the master bedroom, kicking off my shoes and ditching my sweater as I went. I walked into our room, heard that Justin was still talking quietly to Gwyn, and flipped on the light. The explosion of GIANT HAPPY DOG was more overwhelming than the hesitant and then full-faced smile that lit Gwyneth’s face when she saw me, but there was no more joy anywhere in the room than on their two faces. So I crawled into bed with my family (and Malcolm was SO HAPPY that he got up on the bed uninvited and draped himself over my legs, so I mean the whole family), and we tried to sleep.
Yeah, right. I eventually ended up sleeping in an alternate bed with Miles while Gwyn and Justin fought it out in our bed, because I had to go to work today. But I’m home, and that’s really all that matters. A grinning baby came toddling into see me this morning, pointing at Miles and saying as clear as day “KITTY!” Home.
Except I was home while I was in California, too.
These people? They’re a part of my home. Across a decade, the amount of time I’ve spent with each of them in physical company is counted in days and weeks, not months, but it’s irrelevant. They are my team. They are my tribe. They are my family. Friendfeed, Facebook, email, Twitter, IM, and Skype are our daily talk, and they (and others who weren’t in SF, clearly) know more about my world than most anyone else on the planet.
So that was home, too.
Home is where you find it.