I love vacations, but I must confess about this many days in - 5 for those of you who are counting - I find myself longing for home.
I check the weather at home and I think about what it must be like. I pet the Inn Keeper's dog (and every other dog, I must be honest) and I miss my girls. I curl up in bed and imagine the cats on my feet. I buy dog bones and think earnestly of how I miss them. Delta's antics become charming, and I wish Maggie would jump up on me for ear scratches.
I sniff the air, and it smells wonderful, but it is not the air of home. There is salt and brine in the air, and there is not smoke and wet leaves and the nip of frost. The stars are clouded out here, the bright lights of them occluding any - and I think of my back deck and Orion. I wonder what the neighbours are up to, what has been happening at work, and what my mother is doing.
And most of all, I think of my house, of seeing my front door. I think about the dogs meeting me, Mr. Spit* opening the front door and standing on the porch, standing so that I can see him under the porch light. I can hear him calling out "hello darling". I can feel his arms around me - squeezing tightly, I can imagine my head against his chest, and I can smell his cologne and deoderant.
All of a sudden, it does not matter where I am. It does not matter that there has been crab, and beer and yarn stores, coffee in small places and unexpected glimpses of the ocean. It does not matter that are small treasures on every corner, and that I saw the sea lions play. It does not matter.
Home is calling.
(*) Except that there won't actually be a Mr. Spit waiting for me, he's out of town. But still.