How do you know, you are coming home?
I think, I finally know what it means for me:
Smelling the familiar scent of last night's pizza, mixed with the aroma of my companion's after shave and linen washed just in time to put them on the bed before I arrive, are part of it. The filled fruit bowl and the colorful key-box on the countertop. Light coming through big windows, marine layer grey in the morning, in the evenings a pink-golden sunset shimmer. Broken shells, soft dark rocks and a dried chestnut on the windowsill. Birds taking a dirt bath in the dry front yard, others humming between roses and purple flowers in the bushes. Even the pack of chewing gum lying on the kitchen desk.
Opening my arms and falling into my companion's hug is home.
I smell. I see. I hear. I feel.
My heart slows down. My mind relaxes.
I feel grounded. I feel still. I feel at ease.
But didn't I just come from home? Didn't I just travel back from my real, my childhood home?