the home stretch: too punny?

We're almost there.
Almost in my own kitchen, a land of colorful things that I get to smash, chop, roast, and stir.
Almost in balmy Houston, where scarves are merely for decoration.
Almost able to call a cease-fire on rehearsals.
Almost knocking on the doors of my friends' homes.
Almost in my own house, where I don't need a key card to get in.
Almost in my own bed, where I don't need to stretch before climbing on up.
Almost, almost.

But I've made a second home here.
A home where my room always smells like baked things.
A home where scarves have purpose.
A home where I don't often have to worry about finding things to do or people to talk to.
A home where friends in the horn section give out glow-in-the-dark stars to tack to our ceilings because "we're all stars."
A home where all my belongings fit in 100 square feet.
A home where I scurry across the room to turn off the alarm in the mornings, then look down to find myself holding a fluffy cow and a squishy giraffe.
Homey home.