It was just after daylight Sunday morning, and I could see my breath. The February-cold air threatened to seep through all of the layers of clothes I was wearing, but for once, I didn’t really mind.
Having already scaled a rusty farm-green fence and greeted the curious cattle who still stared at me, blinking, I looked at the long stretch of barbed-wire edged lane in front of me.
I knew this place like I know the faces of my children or the sound of rain. You don’t forget things that beautiful, even if you’ve been apart for a while.
The muddy, manure-filled path lined with weather-worn fence posts and trees half-heartedly meandering upward was home.
As the sun shone down, I knew that in the white farmhouse behind me, my grandfather would be having breakfast and getting ready for church. I knew the big, red, Gothic bank barn would be quiet and a little empty-looking and smelling like hay and grease.
I also knew that regardless of where I travel or what other beautiful vistas I might see, this one muddy, memory-filled farm will always, always be my favorite place in the world.