In England, I flitted from town to city and village to dale, never knowing which place to call my home, until I immigrated to America.
It was not long after I moved to the Bronx that I first felt my land on the Yorkshire moors calling me. In my memory, the fields of heather stretched without end and the misty skies enveloped me. I’d remember how it felt to walk along paths centuries old. Each step I made echoing the footsteps of all those who had come before me. I longed to be on that soil again, all the while not understanding why any piece of England should tug so strongly at my heart.
This summer I returned to visit the moor that had been haunting me in my dreams. I walked, hand in hand there with my eldest son, remembering all the ways this place had shaped me. I watched rabbits hopping from burrow to bracken, and recalled how my mother had eaten wild rabbit to keep from hunger. We walked passed lead mines, and I told of the miners in our family who risked their lives to keep poverty at bay. During that walk I realized I would always be a part of this English soil and it was a part of me.
I breathed in that moment of reconnection to my land and took it with me back to America. With my land firmly embedded in my heart, I found my home inside me.
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