It was snow that first welcomed us to Indiana. “Look, Carson and Ella!” we’d pointed out of the car’s window after our long journey up I-65, “It’s snow!!”
I had immediately felt that we were home there. For nearly three years we hadn’t seen any snow while living on the Gulf Coast, enduring Alabama’s ten months of sticky, humid summer a year. Finally feeling at home in the Midwest, I welcomed the cold and the snow and the promise of sledding and snow angels.
Then we moved, away from the place we called our home.
We have now lived in Tennessee for four months, and in our house for a little over one month. My possessions, both prized and menial, are all placed around the house. Everything is in it’s place. My childrens’ room are filled with their beds and toys and clothes. It is our house.
Until today this house hasn’t felt like home. There’s been a void that Christmas didn’t fill, that all the furniture and rugs situated just so, and family pictures hung on it’s walls couldn’t fill.
Then today, the wonder of all wonders, we woke up to snow* falling! I hadn’t even realized that I missed snow. More importantly, I hadn’t realized that I associated snow with home.
“Look, Carson and Ella,” I pointed out the window of our warm and cozy living room first thing this morning, “It’s snow!!”
They both pressed their faces against the window to watch the snow fall.
I think we are home. Finally.
*It’s not a lot of snow, but it’s just enough.