She was at her desk in our basement office and I was across the room at my computer. I heard music and asked her what it was.
"Come watch," she said with a catch in her voice. I walked over and stood next to her. This is what unfolded on the screen.
When the slide show had finished playing, I saw that my wife was crying. I put my hand on her shoulder.
"You ok?" I asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine...wasn't that beautiful?"
We made our way upstairs and got ready for bed. Tears continued to roll down her face.
"What is it, hon'?"
She paused for a moment, then spoke through the emotions welling up inside her. "I guess I miss it more than I thought I did."
"Of course you do," I said, knowing what she was feeling. "It's home."
Neither of us is truly home these days. We live in someone else's house, in a town we've adopted out of circumstance and necessity.
My own hometown is a hundred miles to the north and east, but at least I can say that I live in the state in which I was born. My wife's childhood home -- Morgantown, West Virginia -- is a few hours away, and we don't get over that direction very often.
We need to fix that. After watching her reaction to those images and that music, it's clear that Mrs. KintlaLake is feeling the strong pull of Home -- memories of places and people and moments that created her, sustain her, ground her.
Soon, I think, we'll pile into the truck and head east toward her touchstone -- Home.
This old world is a mystery,
But there's one thing I know:
This is my Home. (Larry Groce)
