(no subject)
It's 83 degrees in Salt Lake City, and it's 10:30 p.m. There is a slight breeze thanks to a cold front coming in, but the air tastes like smoke thanks to a fire at the southeast end of the valley. The wonderful breeze from the cold front becomes not so wonderful when it tastes like charred ash. I can't see the stars because of the smoke, clouds, or city lights. It's dry. It's hot.
It's 48 to 50 degrees in my hometown in Upper Michigan, and it's 12:30 a.m. there. I'm sure the air is crisp and tastes fresh and cool, thanks to Lake Superior and the sparse population = hardly any pollution. I'm sure the stars are shining brightly. I know there is no light pollution, and were I standing in my front yard at this moment, I would be able to see the Milky Way and the half moon lighting my path, with the cool breeze brushing comfortable humidity to illuminate my skin.
I know that Utah is not the place I will live for the rest of my life, but I have a feeling that no matter where I live, whether it be my dream in New England, a countryside home in Britain, or a chalet in Spain or Southern France, nothing will be as good as home. There will never be enough trees, the leaves won't gently ruffle the same, the stars won't seem familiar. Legends and traditions of bravery and historical oral histories won't play through my mind the same way they do back home. Nothing will be quite as familiar. The silence won't be as deafening, nor as comforting.
Nights like these, I miss my home.