I’m writing from one of my favorite places, an airplane somewhere between San Francisco and Salt Lake. For the past six weeks, I’ve stepped out of my own life to help my family. I won’t say it’s been rosebuds and cherries. It’s been tears and new chapters and torn pages and hurt feelings and sore necks and shoulders. But the project is winding down. I’m headed back to Montana tonight to collect my things, say my goodbyes, and take one of the dogs home with me to Seattle.
I’m slushing for an exciting anthology focusing on sense of place. Moving my grandmother from one home to another — neither of which have ever been my home — makes me homesick for my own little house in Seattle in a way I had not known possible. When Adam brought a couple of dresses for last weekend’s wedding, I could smell the house on them — smoke but not smoke, plants but not plants, soil, wood, the particular combination which makes our home ours.
It’s a particularly good time to read these stories as my soul reaches out for the chance to say, yes, friend. I feel that too.