Come Sunday evening, my mind drifts to Vancouver, where my people often gather for family night dinner. It's informal, elbows around the table, kids spilling into the yard of that week's brave host.
Like potluck, but better.
I find myself thinking of all the things I would say, if I was drinking a glass of wine with my best friends tonight.
It's not that I'm unhappy here. I am drinking some Chinese medicine, to ward off a cold, and Greg is cooking for the second night in a row. I hear NFL from the other room; the dogs are nestled by my feet.
I just miss sharing it, with them. So I make due with phone calls, and texts, and emails, and know - as I did the day I moved - that I was blessed beyond measure. Still am.
Lucky, lucky me.