Home again, home again, jiggity jig.

Why the Blue Heron landed on our rooftop, I don't know, but there he was, perched with one leg on the roof. Once my mom got over the obvious joy and awe of seeing the awesome bird (think: a mad dash for a disposable camera, aimed upward through the blinds), she immediately became concerned he was after the goldfish. She stood on the back porch, ready to shoo him off should he decide to take a dip in the pond.

So I'm back home in Atlanta, sitting at my mother's desk by the side door. The sound of Alexander watching TV (voices, canned laughter, my brother's chuckle) can be heard from upstairs. He's supposed to be in bed.

My eyes are heavy. I've not adjusted to the time difference yet. My bags are still by the door.

I'm too much caught up in the whirlwind that led me from Paris. The few days preceding my flight saw me scrubbing the floor with bleach that eventually put pink dots on my sweatshirt. I ran back and forth with Matthieu to Nicolas's, heaped with my belongings, passing by the self-proclaimed African mafia along the way. Five minutes before the landlord's final inspection, I emptied the entire contents of a fridge and freezer, including glass and plastic bowls, into a trashbag. Then was the sleepiest dinner of my life at the table next to a babbling Italian restauranteur. The morning of my departure, I fought with Air France about a changed-flight fee ("You will calm down, Madame!!"). The flight to JFK. The bus to LaGuardia. Starbucks. Sbarro. Cars, streets. New York City. Atlanta.

And so did my year in Paris come to an end. Three long days of supergluing things back together in my broken apartment. I won't let go, and have already begun thinking of ways to return next year.