Christmas week Mike and I went on a whirlwind east coast family tour. We started in Saratoga Springs, New York with Mike’s family and ended in Concord, New Hampshire with mine. We were hampered by illness and a few snowstorms, but were able to spend quality time with family and friends over the course of the week.
It’s been a decade since I’ve lived in New Hampshire. Still, when booking travel to the east coast, I’ve always referred to it as “home.” Someone might ask “Where are you traveling?” and I’d say “Home, to New Hampshire.”
In this rare trip when Mike and I traveled to the east coast together, I noticed a subtle shift in my vernacular. One night, longing for the warm body of Lemhi curled into mine, I whispered to Mike “I miss home.” Without any conscious reasoning on my part, Idaho became home. New Hampshire became the temporary destination.
We moved to Idaho four years ago, and it’s always felt like the place we should be. My brain was calling it home, but it seems my heart is now, too.