Home. Sweet home.

 

"I know they say you can't go home again. I thought if I could touch this place or feel it,
this brokenness inside me might start healing. Out here it's like I'm someone else, I thought that maybe I could find myself.  You leave home, you move on and you do the best you can.
- I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am."  - Miranda Lambert

 

One can see forever on the back roads. The fields all look the same. Planted corn in perfect rows. A vibrant green blanket of a soy bean crop. No need to worry when a crossroad has no marked name.

You just keep driving and the road will lead to an recognizable spot. The familiar rocks are in the same place. And although grown, the trees as well.

 

There's Martin Place. I was ten. The home of my first piano and our dog, Cubbie, who died. The kitchen fire was frightening and the news one day was very sad. Instead of lunch, we listened and heard that our President had died.

 

We reveled in carmel apples on a stick from the five and dime, and nothing impressed us more than Santa's house on the courthouse square. Movies at the Artcraft theater where the fat lady sold the corn. And Providence Park and the community pool where we took swimming lessons against our will.

 

There's an answer here on the back roads, on a two lane road. That answer's as soft as Indiana grass and as strong as Indiana people.

It's still here.

It never left.

I did.

 

Between the lines,