Coming Home

By Ella May 

Ella May Livingston is a first-year majoring in Earth and Environmental Sciences (B.S.). In addition to the environment, she loves music and the arts.

There’s a subtle feeling when you place your feet upon the earth you call home, when you cross the vast distance.

It’s a feeling in the chatter of the airport, or the crickets chirping at dusk. 

It’s hidden in the inflection of the wind’s whispers, in the weight of the air, the motion in the stillness, the smell of a salted breeze, or a sunset dappled sky. 

It’s in the rush of traffic, in the curve of the overpass; it's painted in the mural that marks half-way or the bustling market on a Sunday. 

It’s in the roll of the waves beneath a setting sun, or the guffaw of a gull gliding over town.

It’s disguised by the shimmer of a shard of glass, by a broken bottle, by the flickering blink of a plane overhead, or by the rhythmic tick of a crossing button. 

It’s found in the sight of a cracked sidewalk, the gleam of a sticker-covered pole, or an empty cup amongst amber blades.

This is where you find home, when the feeling of comfort is settled in your bones, your heartbeat quelled and a quiet in your mind. It cannot be duplicated and it is impossible to truly describe.