My left hand is ready, as well trained as it will ever be for the endurance test that awaits it tomorrow. Tomorrow, we close on our new home. Tomorrow, I will sign, initial, sign, initial, initial and then again sign an awesome pile of documents, as well as hand over a very big cashier's check.

Commitmentphone that it appears I am, tomorrow, I will commit myself to a house for three decades. That's almost three times longer than the average American male-female relationship -- now 11 years. You'd think I'd be a nervous wreak.

But I sit here on my bed, one of the few still intact items in this apartment, heavy with contentment. Quietly happy with the knowledge that tomorrow, my son and I start another phase in our life, this one more sustained, more ripe with promise, than so many that have come before.

It's the comfortable hum of knowing something is right. Some piece of life's puzzle clicks softly into place. And with it, the others seem close enough to touch.