Dorothy was Right.

I am going home next week. This is the time for making lists and feeling like I am in two places at once, and therefore nowhere. It’s stressful and bittersweet.

After three months, I feel comfortable here. I’ve stopped reaching for the wrong switch to turn on the lights; I know the shortcut to the supermarket. It’s snowing (again) today in the Berkshires, in the 80’s here – and refreshingly cool instead of the heat and humidity I was dreading.  Friends have introduced me to new exercise classes, museum lectures, boutiques and cafes.   

But this isn’t home. I don’t have that sense of belonging as I approach my house. I don’t come around a curve or climb a hill (the only hills here are highway ramps) and find myself in awe of the view. I miss two lane country roads lined with trees and farms and without traffic. I pay higher taxes but prefer the liberal politics of my home state.   

Some people here think I’m crazy for going home so soon. But I want to be home for the first crocus, for the lightness of the air that signals spring. Dorothy was right. There’s no place like home.