home, i’m yours.

Kessler

it’s time. you wait around and wonder and wonder when the door will close, when the last bell will toll, when the music will stop, the crowd will disperse and the lights will be turned down, dimmer and dimmer until the room is silent and dark. that time is now.

i stand here, as if i’m the last one at the party. i stand with a sinking balloon in my hand and glitter in my hair and a smile on my face. it’s been a good run. i’ve learned more than i ever thought possible. and now it’s time to move on, 4 years later, to my home.

i write often about the meaning of HOME. it’s something you create and recreate and aim to attain over and over and over. the more nomadic your tendencies the harder it is to find home; the bigger the hole in your heart, the deeper you long for those familiar scents, evening breezes, leaf flutters and the distant barks of neighbor dogs. home is not where you are or how you feel. it’s a feeling of unparalleled comfort and stifling familiarity.

home is not a place. home is a memory. it is a memory. it is scraped knees and crying into a pillow and running down the stairs after the faint smell of morning pancakes. it’s howling dogs and dirt roads and horses grazing. it’s riding bikes like gangs through the neighborhood streets, it’s staring out the window at the stars, it’s tying shoes and painting rocks and pricking your finger on rose thorns. it’s an experience of growing up.

we grow up over and over again. in each bout of growth, life opens the door for us to recreate home. sometimes we take advantage of this opportunity, sometimes we don’t. if life was so kind as to solidify our home experience when we are young, we often opt out of an adult recreation of home. this is what i have done.

my home is too good. it’s filled with mountains and love and horses and purple sunsets and an evening breeze so perfect, even goosebumps can’t resist. my new opportunity of home cannot compare. therefore i have remained homeless for nearly 4 years in the natural state of Arkansas, longing for roots, longing for stability, and never allowing myself the freedom to stretch down and dig into the great earth in search of groundwater, of nourishment, of truth. i have grown up again, i have experienced a pain i never knew existed, i have fallen in and out of love and run rampant like some mustang in search of nurturing grassland. i haven’t found it. i’ve tried.

it is not here. it is home. and i know where this road leads me, i know where it ends. where it ends, the start of a new fork begins. it’s beyond the setting sun, beyond the think brambles of suffocating Arkansas forest. it’s amongst the pines and the soaring red hawks and the sparkling trails of crushed formica and sandstone. i’m coming home.

and it opens me to you. you are my ending, the beginning of every day. a silver spoon swirling a cup of black coffee, a roaring fire, a hand-rolled cigarette and bad jokes and veracious lovemaking and laughing until my stomach hurts. you, me. and then everything else.