Home

We stepped off the plane in Asheville after a red eye flight from Portland. Even though it was only eight in the morning, the air was hot and thick with summer . It clung to my face and my skin like lotion, and my clothes felt damp with the surrounding morning mist.
I breathed it in thankfully. I never thought I would miss the heavy humidity that defines an eastern summer. But, oh, how I missed it. Before we landed I looked out the window at a birds eye view of the Blue Ridge. Miles of green (with the occasional eyesore of a golf course with surrounding mansions) rolled out beneath us and I felt, undeniably, that I was home.
The vast peaks of snow capped mountains on the Portland skyline and the rocky beaches of the Oregon coast nested warmly in my memory, but I felt no longing for them. All I wanted to was to sit on my front porch and observe the bounty of our garden, as fireflies weaved magic into the moist, hot night. When we finally arrived home, sleep deprived and happy, our garden was an unrecognizable jungle. Our bed was damp from the heavy air and our house smelled slightly of mildew.
I didn't care. It was perfect. It was home.
I propped myself up on our wicker couch on the front porch that evening and enjoyed some cold white wine on a hot summer night. Fireflies danced above me. I could here our neighbor Cindy call for her daughter Haddie Mae in a thick southern accent and I warm sensation came over me.
I do love our yearly visits to the west coast-which has a magic all its own. But, oh, how these old mountains have cast a spell on me.
One that I am not entirely sure I ever want to escape from.