At some point in late January, I woke up, made a pot of coffee, walked out on my patio and took this photo with my phone. It was a pretty typical day by all accounts.
Yesterday morning, I woke up, made a pot of coffee, walked out on my brother’s patio and took this photo with my phone.
Things have changed a bit. It’s a change I’ve been working toward for the last year-and-a-half or so. Though getting here was a bit more of an ordeal than I’d anticipated, I’m here in my new normal.
When I lived in Florida, I used to tell people that I was a Yankee’s Yankee and I am. Despite my 20+ years in the land of endless summer and equally endless absurdity, it never truly felt like home. Though it’s true I’m no fan of winter, I’m a big fan of these rolling hills.
My ancestors settled around 15 miles south of where I’m sitting right now, long before there was a thing called the United States of America. This place, these fields, these old stone buildings are encoded in my DNA and I could no sooner unravel them from my soul than I could make myself not have red hair or blue eyes.
Sure I’ll miss palm trees and screeching parrots, warm Januarys and orchids that bloom in time for Christmas, the Gulf of Mexico and being able to walk to the beach; but those things can’t hold a candle to having ready access to my brothers and their families. It’s a good thing to feel like I belong somewhere again.