When Emily Dickinson writes about beauty, I see home.
I assumed, like so many others, that home was a physical destination and that its existence did not require my participation.
Colorado – this land – represents many, if not all, of the things that I strive to be.
“Daughter of Appalachia” is a title that I have worn proudly my entire life.
People who can’t simply swap out a roll of toilet paper and expect you to do it for them.
I’ve learned to adapt to the emptiness at home, and am trying to be stronger and more independent.
There was so much noise. And lights. It was all blinding me.
You actually begin to miss that over-priced, over-crowded, mediocre pub you and your friends spent every weekend at
You realize perhaps more easily than you would if you saw them all the time, that your parents are not just your parents. They were people with dreams, and hopes and fears, and baggage. And they are getting older with all those things. As are you.
A home is people but a home is also things. Those things speak to people, to memories, to experiences. Those things hold value. Textures conjure feelings. Colors conjure smells.