Home from Houston to sunflowers and the mountain.
Home to lizards in the sky.
Home to a classy birthday card from Hope.
Home to the land where we wring our hands over Google moving 35 jobs out of Moriarty to a bigger place. Home from Houston, a city of as many people as all of New Mexico and second only to New York in Fortune 500s.
Home to news of a state representative’s 18-year-old son arrested in connection with the fatal drive-by shooting of a high school senior — my heart aching for the families of both.
Home to news of a rescued pit bull escaping from his yard and killing a neighbor’s dog — my heart aching for the owners of both.
Home to a smoky horizon that almost — because I know it is temporary — spoiled my $10-day habit of always parking on the top floor of the airport parking garage so that I can see the mountains and sky sooner upon arrival.
Home to craving chile — either color, although I usually think red when I’m driving up Fourth Street — steaming tortillas and melted cheese. (But, yes, closer to home, I will wrench myself away from the Range in Bernalillo and try Matt DiGregory’s new place up the camino).
Home to a place where we probably should do a better job of agreeing on what we are — We are not Houston — and go from there.
Home to turn 66, stop on the road to take pictures and write a few words.
Home to start again.