We leave Ohio tomorrow. It seems like we just arrived, and strange as it sounds, I miss it already. It's more than an enjoyment of the beauty, and the time spent with extended (but very dear) family that will be absent. It's almost like this magical, green place has cast a spell over me; one that won't be broken by the return to normalcy, or the simplicity of everyday life in Arizona. Ohio is home to me. It's where I was born, where my roots are planted firmly, amongst the thick roots of oak trees, and delicate stems of daisies and wild tangles of grapevines that are growing among the limbs of the maple trees.
Ohio flows in my blood, and is tangled up in the curls of my humidity-saturated hair; it lives among the mosquito bites that freckle my arms and is wrapped tightly around the strings of my memory ridden heart. I remember living here. Some think that a two year old wouldn't remember a place so vast, especially when it dwells so far in the past of my mind; but colors, faces and shapes aren't the only things I remember from 15 years ago. I remember feelings, I remember sensations, I remember being home; I've never forgotten, and coming back here only reminds me again.
You don't forget a place that is a part of you. It is stamped upon your skin, and written on the fragile, crumbling papers of your heart. You don't forget what it feels like to belong somewhere. You find you haven't forgotten the places of your childhood, even though you only recollect when you see them again. They cling tenaciously to your consciousness, and burn in the back of your mind, rising unbidden at the most unexpected moments.
There are always things you never forget.
And you never, ever, forget where home is.