A week away doesn’t seem that long when you say it. It’s just seven days, eight days, seven nights, who’s counting?

You plan and plan and make lists and agendas and then you pack and pack way too much – four books, none of which you’ll open – a diamond painting that you won’t touch – a Kalimba you won’t play – a deck of tarot cards you won’t shuffle. But you might. So you bring them. Because there might be a time when you’re all alone and you just want to read. Or play the Kalimba. Or shuffle the deck.

You won’t, but if you don’t have them, you won’t have pieces of home.

I started missing the Bear and the Little One the second day. Day One was driving, and family, and tired. Day Two was family, and visiting dead relatives, and going back to a motel room, and climbing into a huge bed all alone, and alone isn’t all that fun in reality.

Each day, I called home a few times, to check on the Little One, to tell the Bear I love him, to hear his voice. Each day, I cried a little when I said goodbye for the night. Each night it got harder.

I planned to come home on Monday. I came home on Sunday. I’m exhausted and facing a week of little time for myself and if I had stayed overnight in NY one more night, it might have been better for getting shit done, but it would not have been better for me. Or Bear. Or Maverick.

The reunion was epic. There were tears of joy, and a face licked half off, but what the hell, it could use a good wash. My eyes are held up with toothpicks and I DO NOT CARE because I will crawl into my bed, close my eyes, snore so loud that I’ll wake the dead – who know better than to come round when I’m tired and not in the mood for shenanigans – and tomorrow will be full of joy because I’m home.

And home is the bestest place in the world.