Hearth And Home

When the cab rounded the corner on 4^th Street and revealed the lights that illuminate the entrance to our building, it was an elevating moment. And I was ready for it, after a six-hour flight from JFK, much of it with our doggie in my arms because she simply could not endure the beneath-the-seat backpack any longer. We dragged our bags into the creaky old elevator, turned the key in the lock, flicked on the lights and looked around. Everything in its place. Mitzi’s collection of teddy bears staring back at us in mute welcome. An overripe apple in the fruit bowl. Our plants adroop, begging for an overdue watering. Penny, freed from her leash, began to race around the apartment joyously, in search of long-lost treats. A glass of wine each, we settled onto the couch and gave each other a hug. There are myriad books filled with catchphrases extolling the many virtues of travel. One so often forgotten is the simple pleasure of returning to that place we call home.

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