I walk home breaking off small pieces of the dark chocolate bar in my purse. It is snowing. It is the first day of spring and it is snowing. I don't mind; it quiets the world a bit, slows things down.
I have been homesick all week long, but I can't quite place the feeling. New York has been home for so long that how can I be homesick when I am here? Perhaps it's more of a desire for permanence or quiet or a simpler life?
I am a block away and I can see my window in the brownstone all lit up. That's the feeling, I think. The sensation of walking towards home--of being nearly there. The lit window, the cool night, the comfort on the other side of that glow. I can smell a wood fire in the air. I'm not sick for home, so much as the promise of it, a block away. The knowledge that I'm nearly there.