Last week I moved home.  For the first time since I moved out, I'll be home for a longer period of time.
I exited I-15 and drove east, up slightly sloped streets. Up to the mountain.

To home.
Nothing is home like the curves of my mountains against the sky.  All mountains bring a sense of comfort; I guess that comes with the territory after being raised for 20 years in their shadow. But these are my mountains. Familiar.  My soul settled into the crags and ravines, and I was at peace.

Peace. What I felt had been missing all semester. 

I can't help but feel like I'm at a turning point in my life.  Like what was, never will be again.  There's a foreshadowing of change.  And I want to run full speed-ahead while desperately clinging to all details of the past. 

I can't. 

My dad's beard is bleaching.  It has given up its salt-and-pepper coloring for a soft white.

And I feel anxious.
and excited.
and terrified.
and terribly overwhelmed.

But I know this is where I need to seek a haven.  Under the watchful eye of my mountains. 

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