I have days when I think I'm ready. When I think I'm done. Run. Go. Blow it all and hit the road. Work national parks and ski lodges. Empty litter bins along the Alaska Highway. Make just enough money to drift on to the next adventure. Live outside. Live on the land.
It hits hard in the summer. Bright and beautiful and warm and inviting, mountains and oceans and corvids displaying themselves seductively over each new horizon the road reveals. I could go forever and never come home. This could be home. Out here.
Out here where I step lightly along winding trails of grass and grit. Out here where I carry a dormant can of bear spray, not a stun gun and pepper gel and a rugged posture on schizophrenic city streets.
Out here where I forget what sirens sound like, save for the siren song of the magpie.
Leap into the desert and drown in the heat just to be near you, oh Maggie my sweet.
And yet I always return.
Home.
Real home.
Big soft bed, running water.
Toilet and fridge.
A place to put pants on while standing upright.
A sink to spit toothpaste into.
Face cream.
A cat.
Work and money to pay for the landship and all the fuel she needs for the places she takes me.
Food and doctors and friends.
And them.
I ask myself each time I return:
Could I really bring myself to leave them behind? Forever?
And so I stay. Another year. And another.
City girl with the wild heart.
Home.
Out here.
Right here.
Home.
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