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Yesterday I awoke to the cacophonous thunder of honking. Rolling, relentless peals ripped me from my surprisingly sweet and nostalgic dreams. While my mornings usually start with the bleating of horns bouncing off the buildings that line Fourteenth Street, I was not in Hoboken — I was home in Virginia. I opened my eyes to confirm the familiar surroundings of my parents’ house on Smith Mountain Lake. Shaking off the last wisps of slumber, I climbed out of bed and opened the blinds. Blinded briefly by the sun’s reflection on the water, I realized the honking belonged to a flock of geese in flight. “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.” I whispered to myself.

Less than twelve hours earlier, I’d been home in Greensboro. I lay on top of a picnic table in the middle of Hagan Stone Park. Looking up at the aubergine sky peaking through the canopies of the thick oak trees surrounding my little clearing, I listened to the music and laughter streaming from the reception hall up the hill. Some of my most treasured memories from my younger days have the same setting. I can’t begin to count the number of hours I’ve spent sitting in the cool Carolina air under the open sky just talking or listening to friends strumming and singing. Back then, those adventures were only cut short by the chilly night air or the rampant mosquitoes. I admit I miss that luxury terribly. I can just see me lying on a picnic table with my guitar in the middle of Central Park as darkness descends. Fear of rape, mugging, molestation or even possible arrest curtails my wilderness wanderings at dusk away from the south.

Now, twenty four hours later I’m home in Hoboken, with one cat in my lap, one on my desk, and plans to meet my husband for dinner later tonight. I’ve been home three days in a row, and I’ve been in a different state three days in a row. Figure that one out…

They say you can never go home again. I’m lucky enough to never leave it.