Yesterday we were on the other side of the state for a concert. Our route took us to Flint and then south on 75. As is always the case, there is a certain twinge inside when travels take me back to the east side of the state. It is a sense of home that simply cannot be duplicated, no matter how long I might live in another locale, no matter where my parents or siblings now make their homes, no matter how many years removed I am from the time I truly lived there. As we pass familiar exits on the way - Perry, Bancroft, Durand - I am filled with the familiar anticipation of going home, of heading to the place I know and love. In my minds' eye I see our Flushing houses; I can still walk through each one, picturing each room, the location of our furniture, the way the light entered the windows on a sunny day. My mind grabs at the memory, trying to lock it in forever, before the images fade away into the oblivion of the past.
It is true that home is where my family is. But it is also true that I will always be a Flushing girl at heart.
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