Home for me is still the split level on Prairie Avenue, where if blindfolded, I could make my way around the interior, all the while narrating details of each and everything I touch and breathe in.
The same home where my parents raised eight children, having only three bedrooms, one bathroom and we never, ever felt crowded, just blessed.
With its well-worn wooden stairs, the middle of each tread pounded smooth by a million plus footsteps over all these years.
Its long expanse of a backyard where the grass eventually turns into stone and flows up against the late-night-rumbling-freight tracks.
I have adapted to changes of location with the ebb and flow of life, but it still doesn’t sit well within me.
I am so very thankful that my Momma still lives in that house, for I always know when things get hectic and I need some inner rebalancing, where I can run.