I can feel it occasionally.
The feeling of home.
I can sense it in the strums of a guitar. In the smell of newly cut grass.
Like a recurring dream, one sense can take me to the point that holds my most prized memories.
The place where the stars are most elegant.
Where my spirit can rest.
Home. My home.
My mark of heaven here on this Earth.
Where the orange wild lilies bloom along the tracks.
The cold touch of a rain-soaked porch pressed against bare feet.
The rolling dust lifting from the gravel road.
The aching creak of old stairs.
The rustle of the wind running its fingers through the leaves of the old oaks and maples.
The aroma of brewing coffee bringing back memories of countless meals eaten at a table created by my own father’s calloused and considerate hands.
The howling train rolling through the night, waking me from my faraway dreams, then lulling me back to sleep.
I could find my way back to that old house, colored by butterfly bushes, in the dead of night.
Like a magnetic pull of twists and turns that is buried so deep within myself, like I was born with these directions to home.
When I breathe in that Indiana air, my heart pulses with the rhythm of “Here is where I’m meant to be”.
Where a portion of me will remain for my children, and my children’s children.
Where my blood runs strong and my roots run deep.
Even when I’m not planted on that rich, clay soil, I can feel it.
The tiny fragment of me that I left on that plot of country land, tugging at my every instinct, emphasizing where I’m from and what I will always have.