Wanderlust

You wake a dozen times before the alarm aims to, nervously counting down to departure and wondering how to fit all that stuff into carry-on bags. When we finally leave, impossibly there is snow on the ground, the mountains are covered in bright white, the Great Lake lies quiet with frost. The cherry blooms sleep.

When the plane lifts off I cry. It happens more and more these days, the beauty of the valley overcomes me, it nestles its way into my veins like chlorophyll into a leaf, I am no longer without it. Waves of gratitude wash over me, three decades of America in my blood, three decades of desert and mountains and the kindness of strangers, we drive out of the canyon and it's breathtaking every damn time. My mother says she feels superficial sometimes, asking me about the weather, but I think it's the most meaningful conversation we could have. Three decades of recurring sunshine do not erase 65 years of a northern land in your lungs.

We are where we are from.

Your roots stretch and bend across the continents. They mend and grow with the years.