After a two-and-a-half week separation from CJ, I am back home. As Frank Baum wrote, there’s no place like home. When I got home, it was just what I had hoped for: CJ came down the garage stairs as I pulled in. And Ladybug, our Cavalier, stepped down, too, and sniffed me and cuddled as soon as I opened the car door. CJ’s pretty toes were painted bubble-gum pink, and her skin was her familiar soothing brown, her hair recently washed and in brown layers over her left shoulder.

She helped me lug my ruck and rolling duffel bags into the house, and I took Ladybug out to do her thing in the yard. CJ had laid out some of the books I’d ordered during my time away on the kitchen table. I touched each volume, eager to dive in–Martin Amis, Ian McEwan, Kazuo Ishiguro, and others. There are important writers, still.

I showerd and we patronized our favorite Mexican eatery for a shared meal of chicken enchiladas and rice, then returned home. Another book had been delivered upon arriving home. “Here’s your next one,” CJ said, laughing.

“Don’t worry, love; that one’s this week’s,” I said.

Now I’m into Ishiguro’s contemporary tale about the longing for human connection. Ishiguro gets it.

I’m beyond tired now. Enervated is probably the best word. Spent might work, too. Long days and nights with fellow soldiers. Then protracted rides back home. But we did it. Little sleep. But . . . mission accomplished. Another one down, as the saying goes. And it’s back to work tomorrow.

But not before I rejoice at the kindness of providence in my absence. When I walked upstairs to throw dirty socks and boxers in the laundry basket, CJ had long before changed the linens and made the bed and vacuumed and dusted everything. The bed was taut-clean sheets, my sundry pillows stood up like ramparts upon a castle for sleep, and the comforter fluffy and clean. I was home.

How does one express the embarrassingly simple joys of coming home to one you love? My only answer: words. Just write. Maybe someone else gets it, and cares. She’s precious–this one who labors for me, in my absence, who endures so much time with my being away, only seemingly good for a paycheck, but no physical presence.

It’s this connection to glorious beauty of the mundane I miss–the fluffed pillows, my wife’s pretty pink toes, the nuzzle of my dog, the brush of the family cat upon my calf. Call it sentimental, but it’s home. And as Baum accurately captured, there’s no place like it.