They start in the plains. And in the fields where I spent summers walking amongst stalks of corn.
My soul belongs to the mountains. And to the cabins that bleed family history.
Covered in dust and dirt, so old that when you touch them you can't help wonder how many relatives used them.
Rich in history.
Deeper in memories.
My roots are now planted in a coast that still feels foreign to me on days.
And in a house I fall in love with every time I walk in.
Its swinging screen door in the kitchen and creaky wood floors bring me back to the cabins in Colorado, back to my family, back to my youth and the rich soil of the Midwest.
My roots are not a place.
I've found they are planted within myself.
In the memories that surface no matter where I am.
In any place this life may take me.