Coming home is a kaleidoscope of ancient emotions, colliding with you –

The you that has walked such a long path, but returned here,

To float in the safety and the love and the pain.

For there is nothing more painful than realizing that there is no returning to the way things used to be.

And yet nothing more peaceful than realizing it could not have happened any other way.

Every what if, every but wait, is washed away in the waterfall of a clock that refuses to pause for something as simple as…yourself..

I remember clearly the day I stopped believing that home was just one place.

For the first time in my life, the love I held in my heart was scattered, and I had to make a choice.

Distance myself, or refuse to let distance control my heart.

And I know I made the right choice.

Continued making the right choice, as fate tossed me far from those I love – and into the arms of others I could love just as well. Just as fiercely.

Because home is not the new apartment I enthusiastically covered in splashes of yellow and simplicity.

Home is not the crowded, dark apartment I left before that, filled with laughter as it was.

Not the duplex outside of Minneapolis, place of healing though it might have been.

No, home is seeing wildflowers on the side of the road, and pulling over just to get a closer look.

Home is spontaneous snow days, finding that child inside us again.

Home is coffee shops where you stay all afternoon, speaking fantasies into existence, and needing nothing more than precious words.

Home is talking for hours, not realizing the miles and minutes are passing at all.

Home is every embrace, every tear, every stumbled confession along the way.

For we are all on our way – to something. Something greater, something we probably cannot even conceive of at this moment.

And how could we ever expect a path so great to keep us in the same place?

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