Three hundred and sixty-one days a year I know what home means (a house, a dog, a two-car garage). One box with windows, drawn in crayon, and a chimney that never existed, and the smiley-faced yellow sun, and five potato-people with hair and eyes (two big, three small) holding hands and wearing smiles that are mostly real but not always. Four days a year I know what home means (a pine tree, a star, a dusty gravel road). Seven triangles with flaps, a high-resolution photograph, and a fire that does exist, and the sun, shattered in droplets on the ground, and seventeen silhouettes with towels and boots (all big, all small) linking arms and wearing smiles that are mostly real. Three hundred and sixty-one days a year the way home is easy and short. No need to carry much. The ceilings have glow-in-the-dark stars and little hanging planets. It is warm and dry and the stairs are up to code. The people lie on old green couches or else wander through a forest of metal and glass and light and talk around the world. They know everything and nothing. Four days a year the way home is backbreaking and breathtaking. Carry everything. Meteors fizz across the sky and loop between planets. It is hot and cold and the path fights through boulder-strewn snowfields. The people lie on blown-up rafts or else wander through a forest of green and water and light and talk about the world. They know everything.