As the dusk bugs swarmed our bare necks, we ate pizza and salad on the front porch. The conversation drifted lazily between topics, carried by the slight breeze. Small side-tables we had acquired a country ago, a lifetime ago, were jumbled with paper boxes and purple plates.

It’s good to be home, I thought, in that moment “home” being the place and also the feeling.

Writing from: my study. Listening to: myself yawn.