As my husband makes the final turn of our 20-minute drive home from the airport, our car’s headlights cast a sweep of yellow light across the darkened neighborhood. Until at last, the heavens open up, the choirs of angels sing, and our 1980s two-story at the end of the cul-de-sac is illuminated like a gold gilded vessel.
“Ok, everybody grab your stuff!” husband bellows back to Tween, Teen#1, and Teen#2—now tanned, peeling, and smooshed together in the middle row. Sounds of buckles unbuckling, luggage wheels racing on concrete, and siblings chattering about who gets the main bathroom first fill the late night air.
This morning we were 1600 miles away, basking in our last few hours of a week in tropical paradise including a couple of days in Disney’s magical land of make believe. Tonight, we’re back in Minnesota where people build houses on ice and eat tater-tot hot dish on a stick, and suddenly—there’s no place we’d rather be.