Sometimes the road feels like home. The shoulders of highway feel like walls and the yellow dash line feels as familiar as the handrail going up the steps to the bedrooms. Sometimes the car is my couch. That’s how 2014 has been spent. Traveling. Being uprooted, splintered weeks where a Wednesday feels as uneventful as Sunday. When the days run together and all I’m checking in on is the weather: bliss.
In the midst of Nick’s ever traveling job, he meets up with us wherever we are in the country. The past few weeks it’s been Norfolk International Airport. Visiting my folks and then family vacation in the Outerbanks, Isaiah and I have been little beach bums, kicking sand off our sandals in our drive from the south all the way to Philadelphia for a wedding, and finally headed home last night.
I’m home, but the house is emptying as we ready for the New York move. It’s home, but not. It’s too clean to be called home. The walls too bare, the floors too shiny, the simple decor too obviously minimized for strangers to be home. Yet we’ve never been happier, healthier, or pleased. We have so many tomorrows unfolding and life is too short to be spent in anything but gratitude. Right now, I’m just enjoying that I have two homes: the road and this house with a small echo.