June 1, 2001 | 10:16 a.m.

From where I'm sitting, I can see one telephone pole, and the side of a truck through the bamboo.

Other than that, I see nothing but trees.

Yesterday I walked into my mother's new house for the first time. I climbed out of the dirty blue Ford pickup, swung my suitcase out of the back, and waited for her to go ahead and turn on the porch light. But I could see the boards that made up the path glinting a little, so I carefully put one foot after the other, ignoring her calls to just wait a minute, she'd get the light. The steps curve halfway up and I nearly knocked over a handful of plants with my bag, but I was watching my feet more than anything when the light came on.

Redwood-looking steps. The glass of the door. The living/dining room, almost as big as my entire New York City apartment, cozy but still a mess. Mom lets Buster in and he comes running up, all seven-year-old puppy with bouncing ears, leaning into me for a scratch.

It's not the house I grew up in, but it is home. The mantelpiece clock on a cupboard in the kitchen. Books strewn about the table. The dirty, dirty chair that used to be my favorite for curling up to read until grubby little kid hands covered it in substances I wouldn't want to name if I could.

And now, in the morning, I sit at the computer and look out at the apple tree I used to climb, the crabapple tree with its red leaves, and the evergreens lurking behind the orchard. I wish it was sunny, but I don't really mind that it's not.

After all, no matter how I turn it, it's home