Going Home

My "home" is with my husband, but I can't help but say that I'm "going home" when I travel to Atlanta. Especially when it means going to my parent's house.

Going home is...

• flying over the city I know so well with its sparkling lights at night
• being wrapped in a blanket of softly-humid warmth when I step out of the airport
• the porch light shining as a beacon down the dark street
• the smell of pine needles and gardenias when I pull up in the driveway of my parent's home
• the scent that can't be described, but it's my parent's house
• the beautiful white furniture in "my" bedroom that I've had since I was six
• my bedside light softly gleaming, waiting just for me
• the mattress that is so familiar my body fits into it like a pair of favorite jeans
• my mother's smiling voice waking me gently before she leaves for school
• my father's pot of coffee waiting for me on the counter
• the whole house vacuumed and cleaned as if I was special company coming to stay
• familiar pictures in frames that bring a smile to my face
• watching the birds flit around my mother's bird feeder right outside the kitchen window
• Chick-fil-A goodness being right down the street
• dinner with my parents at our regular Mexican spot
• discovering that the enormous gardenia bush has given me a gift of three new blooms

Home is an anchor of love, certainty, and familiar comforts.