Coming Home

I travel quite a bit. I enjoy travel. I can sleep on planes. I get to see new places. I get to enjoy new experiences.

And then I get home.

The house is quiet.

My cat used to greet me upon my arrival. Then I think his hearing started to go. And then he died last year while I was on a trip.

The house is quiet.

I’ve developed a routine when I get home. No matter the hour, I unpack. The clothes into the laundry hamper. Toiletries into the bathroom drawer. The electronics in the office. Devices plugged in to charge. The passports into the drawer. The suitcase returns to the closet.

On goes the espresso machine. It invariably needs its water reservoir filled. My boarding passes get thrown on top of the shredder.

I used to run to the grocery store to stock up after depleting the fridge before leaving. The grocery store isn’t 24 hours anymore. Too bad. I liked how quiet it was at 2am.

I plop into my office chair, and turn on my computer.

A half-empty bottle of Coke and half-full bag of M&Ms, the remains of my trip sit on my desk.

What have I missed on Twitter? Not much. I caught up in the Lyft ride home.

I should probably head to bed.