Home begins when the air rushing through my car windows becomes sweet from grassy fields at twilight. The fields harbor fireflies that light my way to gravel roads and deep blue woods. Coyote howls replace the city’s sirens; the stars shine a bit brighter, constellations visibly mapping my place in the world.
Home is sitting on the back porch as this world slows down for the night – the smell of my brother’s strong black coffee – dry pages of a book between my fingers. It is closing my eyes and listening to the beauty of stillness and wind in the trees.