I never go back to the place I came from during the holidays. I’m just not the holidays sort. Largely, because that’s not where I feel at home, where I feel I belong.
I am home on a softly rocking rail car, awake in the middle of the night with the lights out and the curtains open. Watching the darkness stretching out along side us, broken only by the occasional lonely house with a light left on in its’ window. The driveway will reach out to the road that reaches out to the tracks and then under my sleeping compartment lit by the red light of the flashing crossing signal.
I am at home pedaling along gravel in green tunnels, wondering what is around the next bend, finding good trail food and eating well. Talking to new people and then falling asleep to and waking up with the anticipation of new miles to pedal in the coming day.
I am at home afoot in the wilds, among the trees, the rivers and the streams. Waking stick in hand and pack on my back as I go. One foot in front of the other. Meandering and seeing new things, smelling the pines and crunching leaves underfoot. Breathing deep and clambering over rocks. Stopping as I go, admiring and capturing views.
I felt at home along the back roads of Peru, where I didn’t speak the language but that didn’t keep me from finding a pastry shop in every place I went.
Home is with her. The only one I ever knew. The only one I want to go to. The only place I ever belong.