The journey home. The journey away from home.

We moved away from Montreal almost 13 years ago. After growing up, going to school, getting married and starting our family there, it was time to replant our branch of the family tree in a city 730 kilometres to the west. Since then, we've become all too familiar with the endless stretch of asphalt known as highway 401 - Canada's, and arguably North America's, busiest - and the aggressively incoherent drivers who menace those who simply want to get to their destination in one piece.

Thankfully, tonight we safely completed our journey despite a long day of near-constant torrential rainstorms punctuated by brilliant sun and even more brilliantly painted skies. Along the way, we texted my sister and brother-in-law as we drove through Toronto, and bantered back and forth with their kids, our munchkins' little cousins. We messaged my aunt - my dad's sister - and uncle as they winged back to Florida. We twittered a huge and hugely supportive community of family and friends, and smiled as responses flowed back to my BlackBerry. We opened the sunroof to watch an Air Canada 777 on final approach to Pearson International Airport pass so closely overhead that it felt like we could reach out and touch its landing gear. We called my mom to make sure she didn't feel alone. We called my mother-in-law to let her know we're praying she comes home from the hospital, healthy and soon. We said a little prayer that we had access to such technology that connected us so richly despite the fact that we were speeding away from them all.

After the trauma of the past few days, our subdued little family pulled into a rain-soaked driveway and opened the door on a suddenly-changed home. The kids helped unpack the van as we tucked cordless phones onto our shoulders and called everyone that mattered to let them know we were here, and that we couldn't stop thinking of them. I walked the dog for the first time in what seemed like ages, relishing the simple pleasure of watching an innocently happy animal romp through the damp grass. We changed into jammies and lingered over tuck-in.

And as the dog curled up in a tiny, impossibly cute ball on my side of the bed, I tiptoed through the darkened house, stopping in each munchkin's room to kiss their heads and tell them that I loved them. Dahlia and Noah were fast asleep, but Zach was still awake. We chatted for a couple of minutes before I held him one last time and headed back to bed. My dad used to tuck us in the same way, and as I trundled back into our room and carefully moved the dog over, I felt a tiny twinge of connectedness to a man who may no longer be alive, but whose spirit clearly lives on in those of us who carry his name and his legacy.

I hope to find more twinges like this one in the days and weeks to come.