Home is where the coffee is.

"I think I'm ready to go home now," I said, sighing. My face sank deeper into the pillow, the exhaustion of the last month behind me.

"Home?" he said, eyebrow raised.

The implication wasn't lost. Alberta is home—or at least it's supposed to be. And yet, for the first time in eight years, I really do feel like I'm going home.

(It's strange, attaching this term of endearment to a city that I've borderline loathed for years. And stranger still, Toronto should be less of a home to me than it was six months ago, before I tore everything away in one fell swoop of uncertainty.)

But still, it felt like an accident, using that word for that place.

"Well, 'home,'" I said, orphan-quoting the word. "Wherever that is."

"What are you most looking forward to doing when you get home? What's the first thing you're going to do?" he asked. 

The answer seemed obvious.

"I'm going to sleep in my own bed." It's been 12 weeks of sleeping in and sharing the beds of friends and family. I'm ready for my own. "And then, in the morning, I'm going to go get an Americano from my favourite coffee shop."

And really, I guess that's it; if home is where the heart is, maybe my heart is slowly letting go of the past and finally living in the present.

But the more likely answer? Home is where my bed is—and wherever I can get a decent cup of coffee.