Holding Pattern

You wake with a start, convinced the alarm clock lies. The room is dark, quiet like a vacuum, and it takes you a while to remember where you are. The incessant noise of 2nd avenue is nowhere to be found, the constant rush of sirens and brawls. You tip-toe down carpeted stairs, to begin a work day in another time zone, as the first streaks of sunrise hit the mountain tops outside your window. Every time, even 22 years later, every time that sun rises, or sets, across the mountains, it fills your heart with song. Your mother agrees to string lights around the house, even though it's technically far too early for even common decency. The nights are cold; it is winter.

Home always overwhelms me with its simple beauty. That something can feel so easy, can hold you so calmly, no matter how far away you've run. I make plans with friends so old they knew me before I even belonged here. Drive routes into the valley I could snake with my eyes closed. Home is a refuge.

But it never holds for long.