One of the best things about travel is the home that awaits my return.

Sometimes home is in the haze that’s heavy in the sky. It tells me I’m just an hour outside of LA.

Or it’s the familiar grid of streets and highways that slowly reveals little landmarks and familiar places I’ve been before.

Sometimes home hits me a little further out, like when the country transitions from one that’s predominantly green to a more arid, brownish-tan color. Home is heard in the flaps and is felt in the plane as it begins its final descent.

Home is felt in the air that brushes my face as a slight breeze makes its way through that little gap between the jetway and the airplane.

Interestingly, even the familiar gridlock on the freeways home make me [occasionally] feel at ease.

And sometimes it’s just a little meow from my cat as he runs to the door to greet me.

Sometimes we find little pieces of home in the usual places, as well as those that we’ve never considered but which make us smile when we take notice.

Tonight I am thankful for home.

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