Last night I was given a dress by a dear friend who’s moving across the country.

It wasn’t even originally meant for me, is the funny thing. She found it amongst her things, left by an old roommate, and thought of me. It fits like it was made for me. I’m wearing it today, and I feel great.

I just have a feeling that this is going to be my lucky dress.

Bad day? Put on The Yellow Dress.
Date? Yellow Dress
Exceptionally good day? Probably wore The Yellow Dress.

I’ve never had a gift dress fit me this well- ever.

This dress is special. I can feel it.

Home is where the heart is, but only if love’s there too.

Summer days so lazy I don’t even bother to put on regular clothes, just wander out by the water’s edge with a towel & a book, Jack Johnson’s magical guitar strumming in my ears.

There, by the dock, pool steps, or river’s edge, I let my mind wander, not caring if it returns or not. Let my consciousness have the day off. Let her drift through the courts of King Arthur, ride along side Ivanhoe and Rebecca, try her hand at chess with Charles Wallace, and shoot with Robin and Will Scarlet.

There, my nerves revel in the sting of the hot pavement on my feet, the warmth of the sun’s light on my skin, and the breeze ruffling the pages of my book, tangling in my hair, and causing goose bumps up and down my limbs. Those hours of escape from reality, where my book is as real as my sister standing in the kitchen, and my mother in the garden, are paradise.

This is my Kingdom of Summer, my Camelot. My knights are the books at my side, my Excalibur, the stories and words barricaded in my mind, my imagination, my Merlin, guides my arm as I battle sloth, boredom, and lethargy that threatens to weigh my limbs down, paralyzing me.

Give me two thousand words and I will visit more places than you could ever imagine. Shangri La, Middle Earth, Narnia, a party at Gatsby’s, the dusty road along side Huck and Tom, Treasure Island, and Uriel, mark them all on my passports. I’ve visited them more times than I can count. There, forever walk and wander the friends of my childhood, the companions of my youth.

My home is found between the pressed pages of any book I open, the path to my door in the lines of black-inked words, repeated by the dozens. The yellowed pages of old favorites form my hearthstone, and the worn bindings and book covers make the roof. Their familiar syllables and voices trapping my heart in their embrace once more.


After all, home is where the heart is, but only if love is there too.

I woke up this morning aching all over.
I don’t mean physically aching, but a pain that I could feel in my bones, my very innermost being. I felt like I had all of the air knocked out of my lungs, and I was just too startled to inhale again.

It was a breathlessness that permeated my consciousness. All I could do after opening my eyes to the rays of sunlight filtering over my mattress was exhale in a surprised huff.

Hours before my heart was light. I was pursuing my dream, finally. Yes, money is an issue, or rather, my lack thereof. Classes were stressful, work was long, but I was on my way. The road had been laid out before me, and damnit I was going to forge ahead.

Then I woke up. All lightheartedness was weighted down by a black hole in my chest.


The wind whipping around the house, creating a haunting whistle that is both comforting and the loneliest sound in the world.
My sanctuary, my room, with its bookshelves filled to overflowing with my precious books, collected, found, rescued over the years.
The trail of coffee shops scattered throughout the city, with their familiar faces, smells and sounds.
That stretch of highway I drove every day my senior year of high school. The mile marker where I got my first ticket.
The drive-in movie theater that I haunted every summer, sneaking in friends under blankets in the back of the car.
My dad’s ridiculous laugh, shaking the rafters of the house, making the dogs hide under the piano.
The cat glaring at everything that moved from her perch on the stairs.
My mom embarrassing my sister in public, getting her flustered.
I knew I missed home, but I underestimated just how much.