I haven't cried in a long time, but Saturday evening after a long walk with a dear friend, my pillow found itself soaked at the thought of leaving. It's strange feeling, to be sick for home, while you are still at home.
But honestly, There's no where on earth quite like the place you grew up in. Every nook and cranny is like an old friend, every creaky board, a friendly whisper. The familiar gravel roads smell of dust and fresh grass,the woods of moss and dirt. The old fort at the head of the trail still leans, with popular boughs woven together, like praying hands. And that trail to the neighbors never grows in, with indents of little feet and stick marking the way.
So many memories are wrapped up in this place, like old sweaters in a box, just waiting to be pulled out. The blue of my sisters eyes, the squeeze of little arms, my big/ little brother's hands as he grips the steering wheel and the sawdust in my dads beard.
I don't always know where every road will take me,
But I know one that will always lead home.
Where's home for you?