An Ode To Iowa Soil

Home. The word itself sounds comfortable, soft in your mouth. It’s a reminder of how you were raised, where you grew up, the person you were when you were young. It’s family and friends. It’s memories, both good and bad. It’s quiet and loud and familiar and where you have roots.

It’s the places you come to when you leave home, the new locations that become familiar in time, the relationships and connections and ways you change and grow somewhere you never expected.

I listen to the hum of crickets, watch the hazy flicker of fireflies in a distant cornfield. I feel the sticky hot summer air mixed with a breeze through the trees that line the pastures where cows stand and graze, not a care in the world. I breathe in Iowa—the dirt, the dust, the manure, the corn, the quiet.

And I remember how home is always, will always, be more than one place.

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