May 4, 2010

i'm only good at being young

There's a 'for sale' sign outside my childhood home, perfectly placed beside a giant tree I was convinced would fall over during every thunderstorm. It's likely I'll only have two months left with that house, and this countdown has given me a particularly unshakable case of nostalgia. My hometown might be described as more on the developed side now, but to me, it will always feel like the country. I will miss the crisp, clean air, the ability to see the Big Dipper with clarity, the humming, almost purring, of the doves every spring, the slow-moving river. I'll probably even miss the sound of the lawnmowers (most folks don't have enough grass in the city to warrant the use of one). And the quietness. Oh, the quietness. There's something so intimate about a moment without disturbance or distraction.

Sappy reflection aside, you might wonder if I'll be heading to greener pastures anytime soon? The short answer: probably not - I'm pretty certain there isn't a market for want-t0-be fashion journalists where the tall grass grows. But will I long for the day when my bank account allows for a city and country home? One can dream - and hope.

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