Writing About Home

Because home is transitive, because I will always be grounded in home, because home changes and I have more than one home. And that’s beautiful.

Remembering Those Endless Summer Days - When I was little, our family would go boating on Lake Michigan. Summers blend together in my mind—fishing on the edge of the dock out front, catching frogs with my bare hands, listening to the cricket lullabies. Continue reading
The Lost Generation - We don’t run our hands along the spines of books or smell fresh ink on pages. We slide fingertips over skin searching, longing. Continue reading
An Ode To Iowa Soil - I listen to the hum of crickets, watch the hazy flicker of fireflies in a distant cornfield. Continue reading
I’m Trying To Figure Out Where ‘Home’ Is - Sometimes I feel like I’m always in motion, spreading myself between people and places I love. Trying, so desperately, to understand the connections I have between each location and my heart, between the person I am in each city, each town, and each relationship I’ve kept and left behind. Continue reading
At Home In Your Own Skin - I can’t explain it, really. That feeling you get when it seems like the world has fallen into place. When you feel whole, as if all the tiny pieces of you have finally melded together. Continue reading
Maybe I Can’t Fix Everything - Maybe that’s my biggest flaw, thinking I can love something into healing Continue reading
I Thought Of My Nana Today - I was reminded, suddenly, of my late grandmother. One whom I can only remember from pictures. Continue reading
I Am My Father’s Daughter - I am fishing poles and baseball bats, glasses and mud-stained cleats, ponytails and a matching birthmark in the center of my right palm. Continue reading
The Angel Charm In My Rear View Mirror - When I opened the door to her, she handed me an angel charm. It was a charcoal grey with tiny wings and a key-chain loop at the end. "To watch over you," she said in her soft spoken manner as she hugged me goodbye. She smelled like cinnamon and vanilla. Continue reading
Returning Home - No matter the time or distance, the city will always carry my beating heart. It will always give me goosebumps, especially now, as the plane begins to shift downward and the skyscrapers slip into view. Continue reading
The Transience of Home - “We’re just like Skins,” I say, reaching a bare arm towards the falling snowflakes. Continue reading
Reminders from Home - My mother sent me pictures of the snowstorm today. From 498 miles away, I open them, take in the white snow so thick and cold I can feel it prickle fresh goosebumps on my skin. Continue reading
If Place is a Pause - If place is a pause, standing in opposition to flux and fluidity, then time and place are in tension. Continue reading
Looking at a Car - You can tell a lot about a person from their car. Continue reading
Tuesday Night Hockey - I have always known two versions of my father: #1- Pleated pants belted just under the stomach scar from his motorcycle accident as a teenager, polo shirt tucked in, hair wet in an attempt to slick it back, glasses. #2 - Corona tank top, some form of cartoon character pants with an assortment of holes and/or paint splatters, white grass-stained Nikes, baseball cap. Continue reading
Thoughts After Doing Yardwork - There is a complex pull of emotions when a woman is faced with yard work. I realized this standing to my father's left, a giant pile of red outdoor rock on the driveway in front of us. Continue reading
Smells - My dog has this weird smell to him, something like soggy towels and stale crackers. But I love it. Continue reading
Broken - A piece of pot roast, drenched in the brown crock-pot gravy and mushrooms, rests in a lukewarm pile on my sister’s abandoned dish. The forks of my father, mother, and I scrape nosily against porcelain plates. This is the only sound. Continue reading
Finding the Way Back Home - There are miles left to travel; the fields lay on either side of us, open and empty. Continue reading