We drove out of Texas yesterday.  The sun hung high above us, chasing our Cherokee across coastline roads en-route to Louisiana, through the flyovers and hot concrete of Houston, onward towards the swamps of the Mississippi coast.

All morning our little one, Muffin, asked in a plaintive voice reserved for two year-olds and hurricane victims: “Where’s our house?”

We offered an explanation in civil tones–we were moving to Sicily–but she would not be consoled.  At one point, it looked as if she might cry.

By late afternoon, we crossed over into the Bayou state, pressing on until the placid expanse of freeway gave way to the quaint, antidiluvian manors and cottages of Lafayette.  We had dinner with one of Furnacegirl’s friends, then stood outside the restaurant for what seemed like an hour, hastening to catch a flash of lightning from a distant summer storm, watching the gumdrop sun float down through mists over the fields, like an eggyolk soaking into white cotton.

I have a feeling we’ll keep catching ourselves looking West for some time to come.

This morning we pack.  The road to Montgomery beckons.  It promises to be a good day, so I leave you with this old John Denver favorite of mine and hope that wherever you are, it feels like home.