Letters from Home

Home, Here and There

Whenever I stop myself from trying too hard and whenever I look and see what it is I am searching for, it Is almost certainly the long, wide flat spaces of home, the first.

It is easy enough to reason away life in the mid-hinterlands. How can I ever get the culture or the speed I had in London? Where will I find myself a good gay, like I always did in KC? How will my children ever be able to leave if the start from the nothingness of simplicity that life in Iowa offers? How can I ask my real home, Colin, to give up the possibility of everywhere else on the maybe dream of something old and familiar?

I am certain that I should have left– I would not trade all of my travels and loves for anything. But I am sorry for the rambling life too, and I wish for the longevity that my sister has, the constancy my parents have, the familiarity I know when I return home, to Iowa and fly low from Ohare to Moline over to quilted landscape that I have etched in me.

Home, I am in the air, between you now — Iowa and Colin.

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