The plane sits on the tarmac in Istanbul airport, and as soon as the doors close, the passengers redistribute so that most people have a row to themselves. I see blue passports and hear Kyrgyz chatter, and I know I’m on my way home.

Takeoff is in the darkness of the evening, and landing is in the middle of the night. The passengers applaud the landing in dense fog, stand before we’ve left the runway, and descend the stairs to the misty tarmac into the Cobus. We make way for women, elders, and a woman with a baby, and I know I’m on my way home.

People smile and chatter jovially in the passport control line. A few scoot bags made of plastic bags and duct tape forward as we wait our turn to enter. I am spoken to in Russian. My passport is stamped by an officer in a large fur hat. I walk into the next room, where I unload my checked luggage myself from the back of the baggage truck amidst a crowd of other people. I step outside, to the tune of “taxi, taxi, taxi,” and I know I’m on my way home.

I see Cyrillic everywhere, families reuniting, and my airport here in Osh. I see my family waiting for me. They shake my hand, and we touch our temples to one another on each side. We walk to the car, and share our holiday experiences in Kyrgyz. We get in the car, and it’s right-hand drive. There are beautiful seat covers, and traditional Uzbek music is playing on the radio, and I know I’m on my way home.

We pull up to the house, and I slip my shoes off before going inside. I retrieve my old fashioned key from my pocket and unlock my room. I plug in my heaters, and tidy things a little bit, and make up my floor bed of tyshyks. I go outside to brush my teeth. And finally, after three weeks away from site, I stoop down and slide under my covers and pull out my phone to send a message to my mother.

“I’m home.”