Last night, after a mind and body numbing day of travel, of cars and buses and planes, of endless sitting in cramped spaces, I slid into bed at 10, too exhausted to do anything but gratefully lie there.
I had a moment. A delicious, blissful moment. My sheets were soft and smooth from countless washings. I was surrounded by fuzzy pillows and blankets (both something my family can't live without). And as I burrowed down my toes hit my almost burning hot hot water bottle.
I intended to read for a bit but I was so happy, so cozy, so comfortable I laid there letting the warmth seep in.
I was home.
No matter how lovely a vacation is, I'm always so happy to be back home. To drive through NYC in the twilight, street lights reflecting on the wet sidewalks. To breathe the crisp, fresh air. This time, for the first time, to open the door and see a super happy puppy literally vibrating with excitement. To walk crowded sidewalks knowing I'd find a good cup of coffee. To hear the noises of the street as I fall asleep.
Dorothy was right about this one.
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