I need to go home.

This autumn, I was in Maryland a good deal - once for Labor Day, once in October, and for Thanksgiving. That was an unprecedented amount of "going home." Not that I minded it at all.

But it's now been two-and-a-half-months since I've been there, and, although that's an eye-blink of time, considering there have been spates where it's been more than 9 months since I've seen the 'rents, I must have grown accustomed to it.

I want to go home.

I want to make awkward conversation with my parents about buying window blinds and how I need to put more money into my 401K. I want that hug I get from my mom when she meets me at the Baggage Check, or as I throw my crap in her trunk in the "Arrivals" lane.

I want to see my little brother, and talk about farts, and think about how much I dislike his girlfriend (WHO CONVINCED HIM TO MOVE IN WITH HER), as she wrinkles up her nose at our "toot-talk."

I want my cat, Plato (the little fucker) to bite another hole through my hand. Then I want to hold Liger (the other, better cat) in front of Plato to make Plato jealous.

I want to drive on roads that curve. I want to eat one Berger's cookie. And then I want to eat a bag of Otterbein's chocolate chip cookies.

I want to wander around Baltimore at night thinking about what a lame city it is, and that everything closes too early. I want to see crackhouses that are three-stories tall.

I want to ride the Metro into D.C. and feel old at a bar in Adams Morgan. I'd like to see a freight train. And the Baltimore smokestack. I miss Rodger's Forge. And Columbia.

I haven't been home to see an azalea or a daffodil (or a crocus) bloom since Bill Clinton was president. I haven't been to Sherwood Gardens since Reagan was president... but I can still smell the tulips - and feel their softness on my soft five-year-old nose.

We have a Bartlett pear tree in our front yard that's now taller than the house, that bursts into a cone of white flowers, whose petals flutter off like snowflakes in April...

I miss the accent. I miss the space. I miss the quiet. I miss I-95 lined with trees.

Right now is the most miserable time of year to go (February sucks up there), and I have trial in June, so going home in early May is probably not going to happen but...

I want to go home. Not for ever (yet) but for a bit.

I miss home.