From my flat in London it takes roughly an hour to reach any local airport, give or take ten minutes. Once arrived and through security, I usually have about 90 minutes of reserve limbo in which to while away a suspended existence: I get a coffee, smooth out my brain with a bit of writing or even take advantage of time zones to catch up with loved ones via text. Sometimes like today, I totally get lost in the suspense and nearly miss my flight, frantically gathering up my things and quick-stepping my way to the departure gate.  Where did my 90 minutes go?

But in the past couple of decades, I’ve yet to miss a flight yet—and this I suppose is a good thing. Because once aboard it’s just a matter of putting in the requisite time before I can touch down and feel something resembling true belonging. I don’t want to extend those hours any further. In this particular case, it was already going to take 6 hours and 47 minutes before the desired sentiment would come.

It’s only a few movies and one book read before we are making our descent for home. This is the point where suddenly I become uncharacteristically impatient. Insistent, almost.  We are still largely above the cloud layer with scattered holes that serve as windows to the earth’s surface. These peeks allow me to start deciphering the reverse puzzle.  Orienting myself, we are likely north of the city. And even as we descend through a thick layer of cottony bump, still I fix my eyes on the whiteout like there is something to actually see. It’s because I want to be the first to spy the city, feeling as though the privilege is my god given right, conveyed upon me by my birth certificate.

And the approach into Boston—be it from the north or south—has its own rewards for the homecomer. There’s Corita’s Rainbow tank to the south or the Tobin Bridge to the north. Each a bit gritty and a lot familiar.  I don’t know which runway we are lining up to use—that’s a bit of knowledge my dad can casually throw out by glancing into the Boston sky and catching a vector.

Touched down and short-term taxi. Whether it’s me going to Boston or someone else arriving in a place offering the same draw, I think we all tend to do the same thing. With home there’s a feeling that runs through your veins and alters your constitution in a way that you can never quite articulate to anyone else. I supposed this is what we call Living a Life: the emotions, thoughts, and conclusions— no matter how irrational— all factor in significantly.

And the fact that I get to be home right here and now—it’s all I need. Attending to the present.