Hours in a car with husband and boys, for the most part lost in their own thoughts. Days with loved ones in a place familiar, but different. Hours in a car coming back. Home. Going over the river and through the woods brings such excitement, and leaving brings a pang of loss. But home, despite its flaws: stale bread on the counter, scads of laundry piled up upon arrival, cat throwing up with joy at our return, is a relief. It is little things, like knowing the contents of the refrigerator and how the remotes work, and it is big things, like the bed that has conformed to your body and the neighbors who have let you into their lives. It is the comfort of leaving the salsa bowl on the coffee table indefinitely or slipping your brassiere off at 6:30 and not caring who might notice. Away is hospitality and delicious, excessive eating and conversation. Home is work to be done, temptations to be overcome, and that nagging sense of some impending forgotten oops, but the work, the temptations and even the oops are all mine. Home, sweet home.