Home

The town may not feel like home quite yet, the streets are still unfamiliar and nothing feels the same.

Yet this small space we call our own has started to feel like home.  There is not a single picture hung on our walls. Cardboard boxes lurking downstairs, the master bedroom a mish mash of disorganized mess.

But there is a tiny crumpled sock bearing testament in the corner of the living room. An empty bowl once filled with goldfish crackers sits on the coffee table. Our laundry is in the basket, waiting to be folded. A large mixing bowl, crusted with oats and honey and vanilla sits in the sink, soaking away the joy of an afternoon hour. The crock pot is ambitiously brewing a batch of greek yogurt. A hammer and a few nails sit out on the counter waiting for a moment of epiphany.  Packets of English Breakfast fill the tea caddy on the sill. Matchbox cars are….well….everywhere.

Somehow, we are home.

The laughter and giggles that float down the stairs whenever boys play upstairs with their Daddy. The deep melancholic sigh rumbling from the west highland terrier snuggled on his new pillow. The morning routine that has all ready established itself. Last weeks newly organized homeschooling closet, all ready feeling the effects of 7 days use.

Those tiny fingerprints smudging the windowsill.

The same ones mar a set of windows back in Miami.

The very ones my grandfather can’t bear to clean in the depth of his sadness.

Yet, I can not help but smile when I look at those dirty smears…they have come to mean that we are home.