I still don’t know what to call home. When I left Denver for Virginia, I said I was going home. When I tearfully left Virginia for Colorado, I said I was going home. I don’t even know what home is anymore exactly.
It’s always hard for me to leave Virginia and head back to whereever I happen to be living at the moment. Virginia is comfortable to me. I know what to expect. I know that I’ll eat tons of vegetables cooked in heavy pots with ham or bacon. I know that I’ll yell at our dog as he tries to place his muddy paws on my jeans. I know that my mom and I will sit on the couch, my feet in her lap, watching a movie, each of us covered in hand-made afghans. I know that women with white hair and wrinkled cheeks will grasp my hand as I help them down the stairs at church. I know that my arguments with my brother will somehow always end in laughter. I know.
But I also know that small town in rural Virginia is not the place for me right now. There’s no room for me to stretch, to grow. The things I need from life right now, I can’t get there. I know that.
So, Monday evening I watched the sun set on a bright red horizon somewhere over Missouri. And I flew home.
I totally hear you, Brandy. I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have two homes, and I don’t have to choose between them. They offer different comforts and can both be a struggle (to go to and to leave) but I am blessed to have two places I can call home.