A soft coat of cotton armor tucked under your chin. Long, protective sleeves gathered at your wrists.
She’s going home.
Home is where her family and friends live. Where she grew up. Where most of her memories were made. But, it’s not her Home. At least not how she defines the word.
Home to her is a contentment in her soul. Peace. Serenity.
Sometimes you have to travel far away from home to find Home – she did that.
Her Home is in the Colorado mountains. Where the wind hums through the pine trees and the sky is an endless cornflower blue. Dusty, dirt roads wind through pastures of horses, cows and weather worn red barns. Sunflowers line the road, leaning to and fro in the breeze. A river rushes by without a care.
Each morning she’s awakened to the melodic sounds of singing birds and chipmunks scuttling in the woodpile.
Home is a feeling deep inside you – It’s not a place.
She left her Home to go home.
She packed her turtlenecks.