Grace

(You say, you have no home. That the years spent tearing from one place to another pulled the home right out of you, and that you spend your days desperately drifting to reclaim what was never yours. But it is not true.
It begins when you cross that last mountain range, and see the familiar valleys spread out underneath the plane. It's in the smell of damp earth under midnight sprinklers, in the sounds of crickets, in the way the sun shines so impossibly bright but the air is dry like desert. It's in the slight lull of your accent, a lingering twang that appears with the first stranger you meet.
This is the land where you grew up. This is where you found a voice to speak with, a soil to plant your roots in, a strange tapestry into which to sew your heart. For better, and for worse, this is the place: this is home.)