Southern Appalachia
Home is small hands reaching to hug you, a mother’s dry lips on your cheek, a step-father’s gruff greeting when I walk into the front door. It’s the distinctive smell of home, familiar but disorienting. It’s not quite my home anymore.
My home is full of silent battles — decades of hurt feelings and problems, nestled just below the surface — and loud battles too. It’s struggling to swallow anger in the face of differences. It’s apologizing after the blowout, picking up shards of a relationship and trying not to cut your hands.
