We've been here four days, and though we still have a zillion boxes to unpack, it feels like home to me already.  It did from the moment that first night when we stood in the middle of the street in front of our house and talked to neighbors while our dogs sniffed around each other, from the moment that we walked across the street after locking ourselves out the next morning and a neighbor's son's best friend climbed into one of our second floor windows to let us back in, from the moment I met two little kids while I was walking Jammer who were heading to the tiny stream in our yard on a frog hunt.  It feels like home every time one of us comes back from a walk and asks the other if we met any new neighbors.

There are no pictures on the walls.  Half of my clothes are still packed.  We can't figure out how to make the light on the outside of the garage work.  Every attempt at cooking requires a frantic search through boxes to find ingredients.  I can't find the box with my favorite hair products.
We're still waiting for the couch that will make our den feel like a cozy place to hang out.  I've missed the turn for our road two of the four times I've driven here since we moved.  We can't find the television remote.

But I'm telling you...

I'm home.