Decisions, Decisions

Generally, I don't believe in love at first sight. But with Indiana, it's always been a little different.

Technically, it wasn't REALLY first sight. But we don't need to worry about that. From the second I crossed over the state line, back in 2004, I was hopelessly in love with it. I remember John the Saint and I stopped at a rest stop about twenty miles in. It was late in the afternoon, maybe around four or 5. I stood at the edge of the pavement, where it met up with a field. My back was to the moving truck and John and the car; I was facing the field and the tall, burnt-yellow grass. A warm wind was blowing, and it promised excitement.

Indiana? Exciting?

Later that night, after we arrived at Duncle's in Bloomington, after we had all gathered around the dinner table and gorged ourselves, after the plates were cleared, after the sun had set, I went out onto the screened porch and settled onto the porch swing. A late-evening storm was brewing, and silver lightening lit up the sky, the back yard, Aunt Jo's vegetable gardens, and the hay bales beyond her yard. Even the air felt different, after Florida--a little less humid, and a lot more electrified.

John the Saint joined me, and together we watched the storm roll in. And then, between flashes of lightning, there was something else lighting up the evening--tiny little gold lights, burning silently and bright for a second, and then disappearing just as quickly. An enormous smile spread over my face as I realized I was seeing fireflies for the first time since I had moved away from the Midwest, almost twenty years before. I glanced over at John, who smiled back, enjoying my simple bliss.

And just like that, I was hopelessly in love with Indiana. With the whole Midwest, really.

Now, as I am beginning to contemplate where to go next, my mind keeps drifting back to the Midwest. Should I try to go back? Am I only considering it because, after the disappointment and emotional desert that is California, it seems safe and comfortable and familiar? Or is it time for me to return? It's felt more right than any other place. Or should I leave that love in the past and move on to something else? Should I try to forget the fireflies, the haze settling on the landscape in a summer dusk, the iron-grey skies of an endless February, the shabby nobility of 100-year-old barns, long abandoned to decay in overgrown fields, the chilly autumn evenings?

I don't think I can forget it.

But I don't know if I should try to go back.