Leaving

I remember thinking the air felt unusually warm for a Kansas March morning. We had my little Focus piled high with necessities and a few small reminders of who we were: a thick Bible that belonged to C’s grandfather and a box full of letters from my dad. C’s artwork fit nicely behind the seats but I had to donate most of my books to make room for about a dozen journals I once passionately scribbled with half-truths and foolish dreams.

The night before, my two closest girlfriends met me at my mom’s and the three of us sat on her back porch for one last time, reminiscing and laughing about those stories we didn’t share with our boyfriends. It was a bittersweet feeling, to be leaving. My friends tried to be cool about it but I’m not sure they understood. There was a visible stinging, somewhat of a “So we’re not enough?” as I tried explaining that although we loved Kansas and would miss everyone terribly, it wasn’t where we needed to be. My mom was the only one who really got it.

Driven by little more than a generous tax return and blind faith, we were setting out to find something we couldn’t even be sure existed.  It wasn’t so much an escape from our wayward roots, although the idea had always been tempting, but really we just wanted to see that elusive castle in the sky. We were looking for home.