Home

After a grueling eight hours wandering aiports across the country and sleeping in odd positions, I finally made it home.

Nothing's changed in the last five years. The blanket of white that covers the ground was neither welcomed or a shock and the one room aiport was buzzing with people speaking in an accent so familiar that I could predict the syllables as they were uttered.

Nonetheless, it was beautiful here. I peered out the window of the "puddle jumper" (the only plane that will travel to my home) as we landed and recognized the house on the corner of Airport Road and the oddly shaped building now abandoned which used to house motorcycles and parts.

And just like no time had passed. I was home again.