I knew I had found my new home on a December evening at about 20,000 feet. I was flying back to the Midwest from a week back in my old home, Washington D.C.. But as I looked out the window as we made the approach I said to myself-
I'm happy to be home.

It was an odd thing to say, since I had only lived there six months at the time.

I had lived in and around D.C. for about 15 years and in many ways it was my old home. But now I was starting a new life and it fit so well that I was calling it home, already.

I looked past the wing, at the Lite Brite landscape below, and smiled. It was new and familiar and I was looking forward to an empty apartment for no particular reason other than it was mine, and I was the one who chose that place and this time. The fit, the feeling that I was in the right place at the right time struck me then, and still does. 14 years later. As we moved above the little houses, factories and strip malls they felt like mine . I was back to where I wanted to be, and about as far away from all that was familiar to me as possible.

If she had noticed my big grin, I'm sure the stewardess would have thought I was heading to a warm embrace or a happy reunion. But there was no one waiting for me as I walked toward the baggage claim. I could only claim myself. And that was more than sufficent.