The Cedarville Review 2020

56 | THE CEDARVILLE REVIEW When my veins run warm with sweet red wine I miss the home I left behind. For me, the secu- rity of home slipped silently into the night, like the one-time lover leaving in the wee hours of morning, the dog whimpering and dying be- neath the vast oak, the taillights bouncing down the driveway with tires spitting out gravel, the sudden absence of simulatedmountains on the heart monitor by the hospital bed. Home is an intimate refuge for the human heart, the place your mind wanders when the pains of life weigh heavy on bruised shoulders. Somewhere of belonging where you are want- ed and welcome. The sanctuary of peace we spend lifetimes pursuing or feebly attempt- ing to recreate. A dwelling enriched with the fragrance of cookies and candles, welcoming walls bedecked with pictures of happy people, leather couches covered in felt pillows, and the animated voices of those we call family. I may spend the rest of my life endeavoring to recreate the security felt in that inviolable place. The soil was rich in Kansas, and my roots grew deep. The tumultuous moves mademe feel like a tree with roots chopped off, reassigned and placed in a puddle of watery soil, expected to regenerate. But I’m not accustomed to this soil. It is shallow and the neighbor’s pipes are getting in the way of growth. Their dog snarls and bites at my protective bark, exposing and draining the life left within. Some scholars call my attachment to the 20- acre plot of land in Kansas topophilia. The word comes from a Greek combination of the roots place + love, which they theorize equals some association of cultural and personal identity. When I meet someone new, shake their hand and begin pleasant introductions, I proudly label myself as “from Kansas.” I am familiar with the Kansas season changes, the idealistic “Ad Astra Per Aspera” motto found on the state flag, the peaceful, unassuming life discovered between prairie grass and barbed wire fencing. My home seems a relic plucked out of a Little House on the Prairie book or a cut-out from a Better Home and Garden mag- azine. I am not sure if home will be recovered or recreated, but I know part of my life and love is buried deep in rich, Kansas soil, and I doubt that will ever change.