Although they’d ridden across the country and Canada to get here two years ago, they’d never flown before our trip down south last month. They’d also never visited their hometown after moving away, and I wasn’t sure how they’d handle it all. They were awesome, from layovers to long walks with suitcases, from car rides to jet lag, from joyful reunions to tearful goodbyes. I should not be shocked that my babies travel so well, so I will not be. I am simply grateful and relieved that the world is now in fact our oyster, and I get to explore it with my people.

We planted over a thousand bulbs and seeds last fall, hoping for a wild and unruly flower garden this spring. There was nothing much to see when we left for the south more than two weeks ago but oh, the show that awaited our return today. We squealed as we pulled onto our street, catching a colorful glimpse of the first fruits of our labor. More flowers to come… hopefully, for weeks and months and years. I hope you’re proud, Papa.

And as we fly across the country, from one time zone to another, through dozens of feelings, an old life behind us and a present one which awaits, we acknowledge the duality of home — it can be a people and it can be a place; sometimes, the two do not go hand-in-hand.

Hallelujah.

Tonight I hugged my nephew and told him I was proud of him, that he’s doing big things.

Well… one big thing at a time, he replied.

Well said, nephew. Let it be so, for each and every one of us.

Now that I’m here, walking his land and sitting on his furniture and wearing his old work shirt, I can say it for real. My grandfather died. He was gone hours before we arrived to North Carolina, which I found both sad and relieving. During his last days on this earth, I felt him with me almost constantly. When I jolted awake in the middle of the night, I talked to him. When I watched water warm beneath the sun as it pooled on the beach with the outgoing tide, I thanked him. The last words we exchanged on FaceTime were I love you.

Kenneth Ames Maultsby, Sr. lived a long life and led a long marriage and left behind long lists and legacies and got the exact death he wanted but still, it doesn’t feel real. Or even settled, necessarily. I guess this is how grief works.

Today, the drive back from the beach seemed so short. It’s funny how growing up drastically changes the perspective on road trips. It also helps to move to Alaska, where every drive is accompanied by a survival bag and the expectation that it could take hours longer than one anticipated.

I also bought soccer gear for my kids today, and hugged people and ate sushi at an old haunt and took a walk in a crowded park and saw my first firefly in years as the sun began to set. As bedraggled and burnt-out as the world seems to be these days, glimpses of normal sure feel nice.