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Business and immediate life circumstances keep me from being with my fiancé. This bugs the beloobies out of us, but we know it’s temporary and so we endure. “The apartment,” she told me this morning, “is a little colder and darker without you at breakfast.”

Determined to lighten the severity of my leaving yesterday, I played peek-a-boo with her for as long as I could across the customs area dividing the U.S. and Canada. Well, at least I played while she hoped and prayed I wouldn’t be arrested. I bobbed and weaved across no man’s land, up, down, and among my fellow passengers, hiding behind architectural columns and assorted customs agents; hiding from her and suddenly reappearing. I saw her curly hair and soft smile nodding slowly side-to-side in disbelief, and I knew she was praying I wouldn’t be arrested.

When I finally left her sight behind the screen and could play no longer, an inner voice pounced on me demanding answers to three questions: How do you come home from home? When you do come home from home, where are you? And, how am I going to live when I get home?

It’ll be weeks before I see her again, and months before our temporary separation is over. So meanwhile I go home, but not all of home is home. I mean it’s still my bed, my kitchen, my linens, pots, and pans. I still have my job and my commute. I still have to walk the dog, but the biggest part of home isn’t at home. The biggest part of home remains 2400 kilometers away on the other side of a border.

I’ve always prided myself on carrying my home around with me. I’ve moved around quite a bit to advance in my profession, but everywhere I landed was home. I ate more chili in Albuquerque and more seafood in Florida. I snow skied in New Mexico and water skied in New York. Some places were hotter, some colder. Some were flat, while others were hilly or downright mountainous. Home has always been home. Until now.

I left my fiancé in Canada knowing it’ll be six months before we’re together permanently, so the questions popped up. How do you come home from home? When you do come home from home, where are you? And finally, how am I going to live when I get home? I wrestled with them for the three-hour flight and decided a few things.

First, you can’t come home from home. In the past, with each new move I left one home and created another. Whenever I visit any of my former hometowns, I enjoy a sense of warm familiarity, but not a sense of going home. Home is where the heart is. And that’s my problem; my heart is 2400 kilometers away. What I have is my bed, my linens, my pots, pans and utensils, my job and my commute, but home isn’t home anymore. In a complete turnabout, a city I’ve visited twice for a total of five days is my home because there resides my heart.

Second, I’m not sure where I am now that I’m home but home’s not here. I guess I’m just somewhere familiar since I came home from home. This was not a case of boarding up the summer cottage and moving back to the year-round place. It’s a case of leaving the biggest part of you elsewhere. My ease in packing up and moving in the past was simplified because home—all of it—came with me. Not this time, because she stayed behind. When your home is with her, you can’t go home without her.

Finally, I’m not sure how I will live now that I’m at home but home’s not here. I mean, I’ll function. I’ll cook, eat, sleep, and teach. I’ll take the garbage out and walk the dog. I’ll write reports and write the Blog. And I’ll cross off the days on the calendar until the next quick visit when either she gets to come home here, or I get to go home there. It’s as if we have two half-homes and we’re whole only when we’re together.