Wherever we travel it seems to take the same few hours to get there.

The plane rises over clouds into an unmarked sky, comes down through clouds to what we have to believe is a different place.

But here are the same green road signs the numbered highways of home, with cars going back and forth to houses with chimneys and windows identical to the ones we thought we had left behind.

The radio blares familiar radio music.

 Soon we will knock on a door and someone will greet us, will pull us into a room we have never seen but already know by heart.