In my mind, I don’t really have a good sense of ‘home’ or where that could possibly be.  For the longest time, the term ‘going home’ always meant to Lansdale, the suburbia dairy farmland just north of Philly.  Though as more time passes in my absence, I have a harder time recognizing my childhood stomping ground amongst the new retail, oddly ubiquitous drug stores, and coffee shops.

This weekend, as I packed my bag for Cincinnati, I was feeling a bit like I was going home, and my mind had a hard time switching geographical locales for this concept – the east coast to the south midwest.  I made the turn down Linwood, past the neighborhood deer in the front lawn, up the drive to Priscillaneous, made my way into the white brick house, through the blue door, up the stairs to my old room, collasped into bed with Simon padding loudly into the room to join me – and sighed, ah it’s good to be home.

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