I'm the kind of person who skips to the conversation when reading a book.
Once, my husband and I, before we had children, moved out to the wild, wild west. It was just like a movie. The tumbleweed blew across the road as we pulled in the cow-town that was to be our home. I cried. I felt like a little bit of tumbleweed, without roots, blowing along in a dry, barren land.
After four years, we moved back east, one child in tow, and a second on the way. We made a home on a tree-lined street in a pretty little town.
Seventeen years later, we moved again. As our house receded in the distance, I was again a tumbleweed. I couldn’t look at our home without feeling dizzy and sad.
We’ve been in a new house for almost seven years, but I still ache for my other home.
Home. What a wonderful word.
This is in response to the Weekly Writing Challenge. I had forgotten how to edit images so I had fun turning turning my house upside down…. like a tumbleweed.