Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

When I was eleven, my family moved to America, for the first of what would be countless times. I have heard the story a hundred times. How I stepped in through the doorway, into that confusingly large atrium in our new house. How I set my bag down. How I proclaimed Well, this is home now. And that was that.

A million lifetimes later, I drag my heavy bags up unending flights of stairs in an old building in the sunny city, the streets littered with coffee house chairs and holiday moods. I tuck my bags, my only possessions now, my snail shell contents, into a corner of the familiar room. There is no telling what this will all become, what lies ahead. I do not ponder it.

This is home now.

We take our champagne bottle, head out into the day that never becomes night, and go where the road takes us.