There is a cost to leaving your heart in thousands of different places. There is a piece of me left, for instance, at the top of a hill overlooking an olive farm in Florence, Italy, when I was eighteen and I wondered deep into my soul if I could ever feel more lost and more found in a single moment ever again. I am also scattered on the shores of Vancouver, whose air grew me, and a cobbled street in Spain when I placed my hand on the bricks and swore I would write a novel there someday. I have given my heart over to the busy and searching people of Toronto, I have sat in a cafe in Chicago with my best friend and sworn my loyalty to her over and over. I have seen the swirling red seas of Nova Scotia, wild and warning, and the warm stove of my aunt and uncle and their fresh bread on the counter and coffee roasting in their shed, and known that it too was home. I have told myself that I will find my way to the coast of California, and years ago sold my soul to a boy with a dream. I suppose it will only be a matter of time before my heart is simply very fine sand, ground and pressed from rock to dust, and that travels best, if you ask me.
[Picture from Kiss The Groom].