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al consecutive years, placed in a clear glass pedestal dish for all of us to admire.

Today, the food will be a little less elaborate and abundant. Around the table, the faces will be a little more lined and weathered, the hair a little thinner and grayer, but the laughs will be just as deep. And just like Thanksgivings of the past, everyone will be thankful for family and fellowship, and everyone will eat too much — feeling miserable until the following day, when leftovers will be served up again with love and care.

So to me, this is what going home, or coming home, means. It’s not just the food, though Lord knows I love casseroles, cakes and cornbread. It’s not just the place, though the dirt roads of Candler, Tattnall, and Toombs Counties run through my veins, just as the paved roads of Houston County do. Home is where time just seems to stop. It’s the place where love fills every room like Sunday morning sunshine. Home is where each homecoming feels both new and ancient, as familiar as Mom’s voice calling me in for supper.

No matter how far I roam, home is where my heart never truly leaves, where love keeps the porch light burning, and where Thanksgiving and Christmas taste like my mother’s and grandmothers’ home cooking and sound like their melodious laughter. Home is where I can finally let out a big breath — one I didn’t even realize I was holding. Home is just home.