Going Home
There’s a feeling that settles in the soul
when the day steals more than it gives,
when the road has been long,
and the miles have worn your edges thin.
I remember that first Christmas
when there were no gifts for me under the tree,
not out of meanness, just the quiet shift
of growing up, moving out,
becoming someone who wasn’t there every morning anymore.
I went back home that year,
and the house felt familiar and strange all at once.
I can still feel that strangeness today,
decades later,
the way a place can hold you
and let you go at the same time.
Life kept moving.
Work sent me across states, across seasons,
hotel rooms and airports blurring into one long hallway.
Kids grew up, and one by one stepped into their own lives,
and the house got quieter in a way
that sneaks up on you.
But even now,
after all the years, all the miles,
I still get that restless pull
when the trip is almost done.
That itch to be back where the air knows my name.
Where the door opens
and my wife’s arms wrap around me
like the world finally exhaled.
Where two pups tumble over each other
just to get close,
tails beating out a rhythm of welcome.
And in that moment,
every hard mile, every long day,
every quiet Christmas,
falls away.
There’s a deep, deep relief
in going home.
wcd
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