It's the 4th of July, and I'm 8,575 miles from home.

I wrote a few months ago that I wasn't sure where home was, but I think time has since answered that question. Home is not carved into a landscape, or stamped on a town, or etched in a building, but is rather built by and sustained through people. You wonder how you can have more than one home; that's how.

When I say I miss home, I mean I miss the people that make up my old life, though it constantly catches me by surprise to remember that there ever was another life.

And yet, slowly but surely, I can feel another home being built here, 8,575 miles away.