Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

I wrote earlier in the week that visiting New York City was like going home. And I meant it. But it needs clarification . . .

Visiting New York City is like returning to the home of my childhood, my first recollection of a protective place where people cared about me. I’ve lived in approximately twenty places after that, but New York was a benchmark.

At the same time, this is not to be confused with the home I currently live in and love as dearly as the New York home of my youth. It’s about feeling safe, and even though I’m challenged with the current remodeling project, I love my present home immensely.

Earl laughs that, when I walk in our house, I say loud and clear, “Hello, house.” And then, in a deep voice I answer myself, “Hello, Anne. I missed you,” as if my house could speak. Truthfully, it does speak to me.

So when I get home tonight I’ll go through the ritual. “Hello, house,” I’ll say. And then I’ll respond in my “house” voice: “I’m glad you’re home.” Earl will shake his head, maybe even smile secretly. But I bet he’s glad I’m home too.