there is an invisible wall between not-home and home you know instantly when you cross it, and are now home. sometimes this invisible wall is precisely located coincident with a physical wall, and the moment of transition happens as you walk through a door. home can expand, extend out, to the driveway, the sidewalk, the street corner, the neighborhood, or even when you come around that curve on the hill and see the city, or around the time you have to turn off your electronic devices as the pilot makes his final approach. home can also shrink, just the back half of the house just my room just my bed and finally so small that even though i am standing right next to it i cannot get inside. for some, home is not separated by inches or feet but by years. what seems like home is unreachable because there is a strip mall and a laundromat where there used to be something that mattered and the only way home is backwards through time. for me, home is still there, that sense of comfort and welcome, the mysterious instant of transfiguration, a destination not fixed in time or place. home is a threshold that i cross when i am with you.