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When you walk in, the air seems different: comforting. Just the act of opening the door and going through the rooms, checking lights, looking to make sure nothing weird happened while you were gone is restful. You drag your luggage to its final resting place-- after it has been your lifeline for days of air travel, it's now abandoned to sit forlorn in a corner of your room till you get around to unpacking it. The cat comes out, rolls on the carpet, stretching to her full length and meowing her approval of your return. Moments later, she'll turn coy and pretend to be mad, or that she didn't notice you were gone in the first place. You check messages on the voice mail, glad that none of them are really important. Put on a pot of hot water for a cup of decaf Earl Grey tea, grab a couple of shortbread cookies and sit on the comfortable beige and tan couch in the front living room-- the room that has two big garden windows that look out onto your wildly growing garden. It's a little weedy, but the purple and white lantanas are blooming heartily with all the rain and there are butterflies touching down, resting wings in the new Spring sunlight. Lizards perch on top of the tall monkey grass, flex a neck gland bright orange, dart away before the mockingbirds take note.

You gaze at the purple glass beehive shaped hummingbird feeder, note that it needs a fresh batch of hummingbird elixer-- but then, few hummingbirds in Texas at this time of the year. The tea cools to the right temperature, and you slip your shoes off, resting on the soft cushions of the couch. The room, surrounded in the green of the outside trees and the diffused sunlight from the overhead skylight welcomes you.

The cat, having been fed while the tea was steaming, now comes from her dish and cleans first one paw, then the other, alternately scowling and looking lovingly at you. She rolls a few times on the Oriental rug, its gold and rust flowered tones setting off her black fur as she sits, regal. Green eyes squint at you, and you invite her to come for ear scratches and apologies for time away.

After the tea, which was decaf, you notice that perhaps a nap would be in order. The cat has already left for the bedroom; you find her curled up on the red silk comforter, looking at you as though you're late. You push her to the side and pull the blanket back, scrunching your faux feather pillow (cause it's hypoallergenic and you get a rash from goose down anymore) into its proper neck supporting shape. The cat curls up in the crook of your right arm and you fall into comfortable, home naptime.

All the irritations of days of lines, grumpy people cutting in front of you, public bathrooms with no paper towels, fasten your seatbelts, please have your ticket ready, too hot espresso, fattening muffins eaten while striding as fast as possible between gates. All of those things are gone, and the muscles of your back relax. The husband will come in later, kick his shoes off, kiss you hello and lie down for a nap next to you while you sleepily curl up into a ball next to him. The cat will abandon you and go to his side of the bed for more ear scratching. Later you will make dinner, or go see friends. Later you will unpack your bags and distribute souvenirs-- a shot glass, a special book bought on the street. But for now, you are simply....

Home.