Let me take a moment away from my grief and focus on something I love. Home. I love home more than I could possibly say. Today I face-timed with my family (if you are familiar with such a thing) and it was amazing. My poor grandma was so confused... she kept saying she didn't like it, and didn't know who the girl in the box was hahaha I was dying. Home, for me, is nestled in a California valley, with emerald green rice fields, blossoming orchards, and a sky that stretches on forever. From my backyard you can see the Sutter Buttes (not pronounced butts)- the world's smallest mountain range AND home to a volcano. My dad is a rice farmer and our ranch is spread out across 2,500 acres. My favorite thing to do is ride my horse out across the fields, down the dirt roads, and past the acres upon acres of walnut trees. I like it best at a smooth gallop, throwing up dirt and stones as we soar pass white breasted cranes and flocks of blackbirds. At certain times the blackbirds start to overrun the fields and so my dad turns myself and my brother loose on them. We ride our quads, shotguns nestled in the crook of one arm and open fire on the greedy pests. This is one of my favorite past times. As a child my favorite thing to do was build forts, which I did with my cousin Zach and my little brother. We would stack as many wooden water boxes (structures used in the field to let water in and out) as we could find and then we'd make tunnels and secret entrances. We would also "borrow" letter openers from the ranch office and wield them as daggers and throwing knives. I once hit my brother clean in the head with a hammer because I was trying to "kill a goblin." Needless to say my mother is much more frightening than any goblin so I never tried again. While my grandparents and aunts and uncles live on the ranch, our house is about a 15 minute drive. It lies just over the Feather River, riding the outskirts of Sacramento. It is a beautiful brick house with a long driveway flecked on each side by rose bushes and citrus trees. There is a beautiful, black, cast-iron gate at the entrance to the driveway that opens conveniently with the press of a button. Our front lawn has a large pole in the center, with a proud American flag attached. The backyard is really quite spectacular. There is a fish pond, with a waterfall (of which my mother dug herself), a large pool, a dozen grassy paths running every which way, arbors full of fresh wisteria, lush, green bushes, towering trees, several rose gardens, a courtyard, and a darling, red barn where the horses reside. Did I happen to mention that there are over 300 rose bushes? This has served in deeming our home the unofficial title of "Roseland Estates." These of course do not include the thousands of other plants and flowers that grow wild in the soil. Coming home is like walking into a storybook, the kinds that you read as a child. You know the ones I'm talking about. They had fairies and unicorns, knights and dragons, enchanted forests and whimsical meadows. In the summer we light lanterns, torches and little tea lights and send floating candles into the pool and pond so that the whole back yard is bathed in a magical glow. There is music and dancing and summer foods like sweet, juicy melons, barbecued meats, salad with strawberries and walnuts, potato salad, and fruit pies with homemade ice cream dripping off the top. My little cousins take me by the hand and I help them play hide and go seek in the dark- they never leave my side. We have races and play soccer and baseball, and skate up and down the driveway. Sometimes we race our dirt bikes and quads out in the orchards or challenge one another to a horse race.
I think my favorite times are when dusk is just settling in the air like some fragment of floating lint, and my mom and I go out to ride bareback, with the setting sun still warming our backs and the promise of a new day fresh in our minds. After that we get ice cream cones and fill them with sticky, sweet sherbet, trying to steal bites from each other. After my parents have drifted off to sleep my brother and I sneak out into the yard and swim until midnight or watch movies or just talk until sleep takes us. I like taking sheets and blankets out into the backyard and falling asleep beneath the stars while my cattle dog nestles close against my side. Or sometimes I will take a blanket into the horse pasture and fall asleep against one of the horses. It is in times like these that I long for home. A place I know to be safe, comforting, always welcoming of me and all my sorrows and all my experiences and regrets. A place where I can lay my head at night and not worry about what will haunt me in my dreams. A place where I can wear anything and feel terribly fashionable, a place that I don't fear the aches of the heart and the tragedies of this cold world. At home I drive an old pickup truck, a 1963 Chevy. His name is Jesse (and I have suspicions that he is in fact a transformer). That truck and I have caused so much ruckus, broken so many young, cowboys' hearts, and witnessed more sunsets together than I can count. It is the place that I feel most myself in this entire world, and it is the place that I pray God sends me to tonight in my dreams. I could say so much more, tell so many stories about home and the blessing it is to me. I could tell bad stories too, because no home is perfect, but it is the people, who make a house a home. And my family... they are my favorite people in this entire world.
It is 1 in the morning and I am off to try to find some sort of sleep. Good morning.
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