It was your average Tuesday afternoon.
The sun was at the spot in the sky you’d expect the sun to be at 3:45. It was about as warm as you could hope for it to be at the beginning of March in Eastern Washington.
The old man in the white pickup waved at me as we passed each other, just as I’d expect most people in town to do – not because I knew him, but because that’s what people here do.
There was nothing extraordinary about that Tuesday – everything was as it should be, nothing was out of place. But that Tuesday? That Tuesday was extra-ordinary.
There was something about that Tuesday – Tuesday, March 9, 2010 – that was extra-ordinary.
I left work with a smile on my face, because that’s how I tend to leave work these days: Happy. Content. Pleased with my day. I glanced down at town from the hilltop where my office is located and, again, smiled to myself – all was well. Everything was as it should be. Nothing was out of place. And then I got into my car and drove home.
Home.
Home.
For the first time since high school, I finally feel at home.
