For the first time, I have a home of my own to leave behind and mixed feelings at doing so. My garden is on the cusp of promise as calendulas, zinnia, and the bachelor’s buttons are all budding; the nasturtium and borage just recently began blossoming, and the borage promises quite the show in the next few weeks. The squash plants are all such teases with their showy yellow-orange blossoms that have yet to come to fruition. My tomatoes plants have begun to produce plump green fruits, and a lone Brandywine is ripening to a lovely rich red color. The garden seems about to burst open with life, and I am about to miss it.
With how busy we have been, I feel as if I have had far too few opportunities to sit and enjoy the house that we bought. We have enjoyed far too few evenings sitting on the patio as Fortunata struts around, comically both self-assured and thoroughly unsure of her steps (and of me) until I pick her up and she settles in on my lap for a few pleasant chirps and a quick power nap. We have spent far too few evenings watching the bees drift in and out of their hive, languid yet purposeful.
As much as I am looking forward to seeing my uncle, whom I so rarely see because he lives in Alaska, and have been anticipating this trek to Glacier National Park since December, I am already homesick for what I’ll miss right here. This change—this new sense of homesickness and belonging—is also indicative of the good things the year has brought. I have a home which is already so “home” to me after 2 ½ short months that I already miss it, and I haven’t quite left yet.