Theres No Place Like Home

Today is a day of mourning for me.

If all goes according to plan, a piece of me will die this afternoon and everyone around me will be celebrating. It’s a long story.

For me it’s much worse than the sale of a house. It’s not even my house. But it was my home. My home away from home.

We wander the earth like gypsies, but until now, there was always a place to return to. A place of peace and refuge. A place of dreams and wonder. A place to play in the trees, climb through the hayloft, breathe the fresh county air and feel truly ALIVE. The smell of fresh cut hay, the sound of a distant tractor, the feel of the low-lying fog on your face. The warmth of the wood burning stove. The brilliance of a sky full of stars. The horses grazing out the front window. The cat curled on the end of a quilt-covered bed. Vintage photographs hanging on the walls. An old piano missing an ivory key. Antique typewriters. Homemade apple pies. The hammock under the walnut tree. The ticking of the grandfather clock. Dust swirling lazily in the afternoon sunlight. The iridescent spray of farm irrigation at sunset. The last vestiges of childhood- both mine and my children’s. Gone.

I suppose we all have to let go at some point. That feeling of “home” is something we have to make ourselves. Home is not something we can return to. Life marches on

No, I wasn’t born in a barn, but this is my tribute to the last place on earth that felt like home.