Michigan has never been my home, but after all of these years, the wistful tug is there. It appears when I see a photo of the Upper Peninsula or daydream about that great, snow-covered historic home with the wrap-around porch in Sault Ste. Marie. It's there when we drive by a crumbling house in Detroit and when we see how people are saving those spaces and making them whole again. The tug is there.
It's there in the big dreams, and it's there in the little details. It's in the soft light whispering through the window, and it's there in the crackle of the fireplace, so welcome when the cold winds outside numb my toes. It's there in fallen leaves and birds' nests and that wild turkey that waddles down the street every now and again.
Could this all be home one day? I don't know. And in some ways, I'm okay with not knowing. Until then, I'll keep dreaming and savoring these small moments that we get every now and again. I will plan our getaway to more northern lands and dream of the house we will fix up one day-- hardwood floors, fireplaces, and snow outside. And quiet. It will be so so quiet.
