I'm home

When I get off the 1 train at 86th St after work, I'm home. I walk up Broadway and admire the windows of Banana Republic and Club Monaco. I peer into Georgia's and read the chalkboard outside that lists their specials (recently, "Pies Galore! Who doesn't like pie?"). I walk up the steps and get out the middle key on my keyring, which opens the building door. I lean around the corner to see if our mail is on the table in the lobby. I punch the 9 button in the elevator three times... always three times. I walk into our apartment, careful to make sure our very loud, heavy door doesn't slam for the whole building to hear. I call out, "Hello, hello?" to see if any roommates are home. I sift through the mail on the table in our foyer (because it's never in the lobby by the time I get home, and it's always on the table in our foyer). I head back to my room. I set my purse down next to my desk. I put my keys in the green bowl that sits next to my computer. I kick off my shoes. I'm home.

When I fly into Hartsfield, I'm home. After walking what feels like miles and riding the tram, I arrive at the escalator that goes up toward baggage claim. My mom is there waiting for me at the top, always so excited to see me. She asks if I checked luggage (I probably did not). We walk out toward the parking deck. She goes through the line that's longest, but it's the only one that takes cash. She drives, and while we're talking, she gets confused and inevitably thinks we've missed I-75. (This happened once and has thrown us off ever since.) We get off the Interstate an exit early so that we can go to Chick-fil-A; I get a Chick-fil-A sandwich with no pickles and a medium sweet tea. I carry it home. I throw my bags in the bedroom I've slept in since I was 15 years old and immediately turn the radio on to Kicks 101.5. I'm home.

When I walk in the doors of Gallery Church, I'm home.

When I drive over to my grandparents' house in Marietta - the house where I spent every Saturday night for most of my life, where I read Babysitter's Club books and ate Mayfield vanilla ice cream - I'm home.

When I'm in Long Island City and look across the river at the glowing lights Manhattan, the beacons that are the Empire State Building and Chrysler Building, I'm home.

When I travel to Santa Rosa Beach with my best friends from college, and we sit on the beach chatting (and eating), and in the living room chatting (and eating), and at the dining room table chatting (and eating), I'm home.

When I curl up in Starbucks with my iPod in and a New York magazine crossword puzzle, I'm home.

When I drive to Athens and pass my sorority house and business school buildings and the Baptist Student Union and Five Star Day and the stadium and a little yellow house with a front porch on Oakland Ave, I'm home.

When I sit on a bench in Central Park with a friend, gazing at the skyline and trees and the bridge and rowboats, I'm home.

And when, in two weeks, I pack up my last suitcase and turn in my keys and hail a cab to Laguardia, I'll be moving home, and leaving home, and going home, and missing home, all at the same time.

________________________________________

Elizabeth got a group of friends together to write about HOME today. Check out her blog here, along with other posts by dear friends on what home means to them. Really, really lovely.