I want to chase the sunset on its way to the west.
I want to take in the vast, sweeping Plains rolling flat for miles into the horizon.
I want to lie in the tall, stiff prairie grass and tromp through the corn fields prickly and magical as they are.
I want to feel the heat and humidity on my skin. I want to feel the dirt between my toes.
I want to hear the thunder rumble, feel the wind blow threatening and uncertain.
I talked to my little brother on the phone the other day. I asked him if he wanted to come for dinner. He asked what I was making. We talked like he would bring the bread for my butter. He is 1,000 miles away—or a million—it makes no difference, the distance is all the same.
Sometimes I want to go home.
I want to stop by my parent’s house on the way home from work just to say hi and I love you.
I want to meet my best friend in a coffee shop and talk over each other loud and fast like we always do.
I want to chase my nephews and kiss my nieces.
I want to fight with my brothers and shop with my sister-in-laws.
I want to gather around the table for Sunday dinner.
I left after college as fast as I could get away. I always knew what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be: Anywhere but there.
I ran fast and hard—and I got away.
I didn’t know then, when I was 22, how hard it would be to go back, how far I was from home.
I didn’t know when I was 22 how quickly life would change, how fast the babies would grow.
I didn’t know when I was 22 that I would ever want to hug my brothers, my stupid annoying brothers.
I didn’t know when I was 22 that the flat boring Plains were quietly magical, that home is a magic all its own.
I didn’t know until I was too far away, that distance could hurt so much. I didn’t know the place you call home is a part of your soul, woven into your very being.
I didn’t know when I was 22 that I would ever want to go home.