It is near 70 degrees on a Sunday in November. Landon and I go exploring together in my parents backyard. I fervently capture his every move. I see so much of him in me. His blonde hair. His blue eyes. But also a spirit filled with love of nature and adventure. Oh, how I hope that part of him always stays alive. That when the cold of winter comes into his life he might always remember the promise that spring, summer and fall will return with a kiss of sun on his cheek.
I watch as he skips across the three acre yard from end to end. Fence to fence. He delights in every detail. He plays as if he could take flight at any moment. His bangs whipping with the strength of the wind.
It feels eerily familiar. Years ago I did the same things. In the same yard. When I was a child I never knew a different home than this. I never knew a different world than this.
Here, in this little square space, I discovered the world. One tree, one leaf, one season at a time. But on this day, I watch as my son’s eyes soak up all nature has to offer.
The security I felt in this place has never been stronger anywhere else. I know that might sound strange to some. Especially since I have my own family now. My own home. But when you live in the same house for 20+ years, well, nothing else seems fitting but the word home. I think it will always be home. No matter where I am.
My heart soars to know that it remains a safe-haven for my children all these years later. That they might climb the same trees. Play hide & seek in the same bushes.
And someday, when my parents are gone, my children are grown and I am in the winter of my life. This house will belong to a new growing family. But I will remember one sweet day in November when the roses were on fire.
And I will be home.