The smell of home in the morning

"Home again, home again, jiggedy jig. Welcome JF." I am home again, home to my city, my community and my apartment, and my head is still spinning from road. Some numbers to consider from the last month, 25 hotels, 5000 km of driving, three states, four plane rides, three airports and no duty free scotch. I was at full stride for four weeks and now I have come to a complete stop, now where do I start?

It starts with my own bed, linens and pillows, followed the right cup of coffee in the morning, the one I've done without for the past month, and then the wander. It takes a couple of days to get over the full stop and to allow that recognition of place to settle in. I know this place. It is an act of convincing one's self. This is home, this is where I am comfortable and this is where I belong.

After a couple of weeks on the road the days become one, and unfortunatly they all become Saturday. Every morning begins with the question: "What the hell am I doing awake so early on a Saturday?" The hard thing about this is that after a few weeks on the road I find myself waking every morning a few minutes before the alarm rings. The worst is the idea, then, that waking so early on a Saturday is a voluntary act.