How to explain the breadth of my feelings about being home within breathing distance of my own family would be impossible. There are over 170,000 words in the English language but none of them will fully explain the drift down into softness that comes as a woman swoops to the floor, dropping her bags and freeing her arms to receive three tiny flying child bodies. They were all released at the same shout of recognition and they cannon towards her, only her, hurtling across the airport terminal carpets, aimed straight for this woman. Their kin.
For some reason the greeting place through the final door of a long journey is infused with a kind of magic. Good magic. The magical abandon of children both disarms and nourishes.
It is Sunday morning now. The house is very quiet as everyone sleeps.
Only the wind from the sea whips up through the open windows.
Quieter here than the farm.