I didn't miss "home." Not at all.
The things I would want, had I decided to stay could have been packed in one box, the rest of it sold. I would have used the cash earned to pay for a place to stay, leaving behind a house with a mortgage in the town we could afford rather than the town we wanted to live in, exchanging it for a small apartment where we could eat pasta while sitting on pillows near the coffee table, drinking wine from mason jars because it was too expensive to ship the ones we'd leave behind.
We could start over, turning dreams into reality and then creating new dreams in their wake, reinventing ourselves, reevaluating our former selves, saying goodbye as eagerly as we would greet new friends.
I'd become less connected to those not around me and more connected to those I can see, touch, hear, feel.
I would make time for the sun everyday. Yoga would be the thing I "do" rather than the thing I "did" before. I would acknowledge that work was something that allowed me to have certain things, but it would not define me or my goals.
Covered in new freckles unearthed by a sun strong enough to fill life's shadows, I longed to stay.
But I was afraid to tell him how I felt as we left our temporary paradise, that I loved our former life until I saw what we could be in a new one, a life of warm breezes and sunshine, a life where the tiny lines on his furrowed brow disappeared and we laughed more. I was afraid he'd wonder why he married me, why we had bought a house here, why we had begun to sink our roots into ground I longed to leave.
And yet, instead of harboring my secret and accepting reality when we were back, he looked to me, brow furrowed and said, "I know exactly what you mean."