A cabin in Montana

I just got back from a week long trip to Monana. On my 13 hour drive I saw many beautiful sights but none so lovely as this little lonely cabin in the middle of a field being kissed by the heavens. I stood there watching the light dance on the prarie, and filled with the anticipation of going home, I knew I could never really go home. People change. Places change. All the things you loved and thought you 'knew' morph into realizations that the adult mind can't see the world like the heart of a child can. I can physically visit all the places of my youth but I can never see them the same. I visited Montana with a rush of joy at seeing old friends and a mixture of regret for all the many losses that were born there and that still live inside me like tiny seeds, blooming at times in the fertile grounds of sorrow, nourished by timely tearful showers. While the cabin on the prarie mezmerized me, I could only hold my breath until I truly came home. Home to Colorado. My home of 6 weeks. My new home with my husband, my three kids and our new beginnings. For me, home is where ever we are together, not where we came from. Not where we were born or where we had our first crush or learned to drive, but where we lay our heads at night listening to each other breathe softly. And when my daughter rises in the night to visit the bathroom or get a drink of water, bumping into the unfamiliar corners of our new home, I sigh with contentment that we are indeed, truly, completely, at Home.