I look up at the sky and see the depths of my soul reflected back.
It’s the color of charcoal with a golden sun streak breaking through.
The rain has started and I am not sure whether I am swallowing raindrops or my tears.
It doesn’t matter though. It’s all the same.
I keep walking alone down a path that leads past a broken-down barn and a lone tree. Nobody is in sight.
I looked up at the sky again as the bit of sun leaves and the clouds darken to a color that resembles the eyes of a man I once loved.
Some wonder why I love the Pacific Northwest so much. It rains here after all, and the sky often matches the color of my umbrella.
I love it though. I love it as much as I love myself.
I have tried to explain to those not from here why the Pacific Northwest feels most like home. It may not currently be my physical “home” in the sense of a building in which I sleep in or a license plate that resides on my car.
It feels like home, though, because it matches the resting place deep in my soul.
I was told once by a therapist that home is wherever I am, and she was right. There’s a dwelling place I go to often when I close my eyes, where I am hugged endlessly. I feel it each time I put my hand to my heart no matter the location I am.
I find this same feeling in the clouds here in the Pacific Northwest.
I look up at the sky as it continues to darken and smile. It’s a mirror. I see my tears reflected back and realize the warmth that’s present even in my sadness.
I’d wanted to “go home” for seven years, having not realized that I truly am home wherever I am.
My dwelling place is the color of charcoal, and that’s okay.
It’s home, and I love it.