(photo credit: Lindsey Harris)

I’ve been thinking a lot about home lately. Not my current home but the home of my first 18 years. Home home. Where I grew up, rode bikes to the lake and Aspen market for candy, had my first kiss, drank my first beer, and drove my first car (not necessarily in that order, of course).

It was a very pretty, very small place to grow up. I couldn’t wait to leave and I haven’t been back in years. 

My parents don’t live there anymore. Someone else lives in my childhood home, assuming it’s still standing. Yet, despite the physical and temporal distance, it pulls at me. I think it always will. Something about that lake and those mountains. About the people who have known me literally my whole life. 

I have friends who never left and friends who have moved back. I scroll through their posts on FB and I am jealous that they are there together without me. Driving those same streets, skiing those same slopes, watching those same sunsets, while I am far away.

My parents moved their because they thought it would be a good place to raise a family. I suppose they were right. But I can’t see raising my family there. Financially I just don’t know how we would swing it. My husband and I couldn’t work at our current jobs or anything close in a town of less than 3,000 people.

But maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Maybe something new is needed. It’s hard to say. It’s hard to even seriously consider after all these years of believing I could never, ever go back. Because then I would be who I was and not who I am, or at least that has always been my fear. Unfounded probably, but still, I prefer my present self. 

Maybe a visit when the kids are older. Or maybe just in my mind from time to time. Even if I never go back, it will always be home to me. 

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