Moving In, Flying Out

 

Home.  It's where we grow up, graduate school, buy underwear, move furniture, stock the pantry, clean and eat "in."  It's where our beds are - pillows molded to our bodies over time and use. It's where we can read all the street signs and speak the language. But more than anything else, home is where our people are - those we're allowed to get mad at, who pick us up at the airport, raid the pantry, borrow stuff without asking, stink up the house.  The ones we don't have to talk to on a quiet Sunday morning when we just wanna read the paper and sip coffee in peace.

 

Home is where the people are who love us even when we're jerks.  Who forgive us, without expectation, retribution or second thought for committing the terrible sin of being...us.

 

For me, home is here, with Bob.  And it's also there, with you.

 

While in Doha, Katie, Kimber and I bargained at the souk, lounged at the beach, ate all kinds of food, drove roundabouts and dunes.  We bought groceries, lamps, towels and soap.  We did laundry, mopped floors, washed dishes, cooked dinner, claimed closets and drawers, reset clocks, moved furniture, jogged the streets.  We bought a vacuum cleaner!

 

We played...and we moved in.

 

Today: a quiet morning to drink coffee, clean up, pack.  Then we'll hit the road out of town to experience the camel races.  We'll pause for dinner - until finally, lastly...we'll head to the airport.  A little after midnight we'll leave dad, husband - home - to head...home.

 

How weird.