I stare out the plate glass window in the hopes that maybe, someday, I'll be able to see the tall glass and steel buildings of New York from my tiny apartment in upstate Wisconsin. The weather is cold here, and the sky is gray, and although I'm sure things are equally as slate-skied in the Big Apple, I can't help but sigh and wish I was there.
New York's a far cry from the farm fields of my home, but it holds this magic, a sparkling density that holds my attention like a good book, and if I were there, the story would never end. I'd skip along the streets of SoHo and Manhattan, admiring the bricked buildings and loud city. I'd never be alone, and there'd always be lights on when I got home.
But home is not New York. Home is a big blue house in the country with cats running amok, a wild jungle of felines. Home is sitting and staring from my bedroom at the lilac bushes brimming with lavender petals, those purple clumps of perfection in flower form. Home is the yardlights of the distant neighbors, providing a dimming shimmer in the night, illuminating just the slightest hint of the sky.
Reminders of childhood summers of mud puddle joy, hay bale jumping, a shallow creek minnowed and algae-covered, that is home to me. These country roads do take me home, to the place I was raised, where I fought with my brother and laughed with my mother, where I played with toys and cried over boys.
Home is home, and no amount of bright lights or skyscrapers can change that.