I thought I'd be thrilled to be home, among familiar things, the cats, my own blankets, my own kitchen things. But I went out to move the jeep this morning and found we got a ticket for parking in a space we and everyone in our building has parked in for the last 3 years.
And I remember that New York is hard.
And that makes me long for palms and white beaches and naked sandy children and a sky that is low and blue and endless. No cares, just which bathing suit we want to wear, if any, and what freshly grown produce we will whip up into a simple, satisfying lunch, with our bare feet still sandy and our head still immersed in how many shells we collected that day.
And no alternate side of the street parking because everyone has a freakin' garage.
Lucy feels the same way. I asked her last night if she was glad to be home, because I thought she would be, since they tore into their toys as if they were brand new. But she didn't hesitate, "I wish I were back in Noosa in the pool." And little girl, I get it.
Maybe I'll feel differently tomorrow, after when we put away our swimsuits and bundle ourselves in downy jackets. When we reclaim our New York selves. Maybe I'll cook something to make us feel at home again, something warm and comforting for Winter, but with a nod to Spring, something with the promise of warmth and sun and renewal.
But for right now, our bodies may be here, but our hearts are back in the sub-tropics. Give me a day or two and I'll be back to my old self...