Aching

They are promising me Spring in the morning, but right now it's cold, wet, and after a rough day at work - the whole world feels soggy.

So to combat the dismal dismay I find I am going to write and post pictures, which I will delete in the morning when I wake up to sunshine and feel silly.
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I am aching for a little house in a small town in Minnesota with memories tucked away on every shelf and echoes of laughter in every corner, laundry in the backyard waving in the wind, blue jays in the grass, and where I can hear my grandpa argue the rules of Cribbage and my grandma say, "Uff ta! Daggnabit!"

I am aching for the hours spent running in the woods and hunting for kittens. And for days and nights full of games and conversations with cousins tumbled on couches and across the floor. I miss them awfully bad.

I'm aching for green and trees, bike rides to parks, and getting lost in the blocks between the small house and library.

I'm aching for wide open plains where the earth stretches out to brush the edges of a blue sky with billowing clouds that sweep low and reach up high.

I'm aching to chase a midwestern sunrise, to catch the gleams and laugh for the sheer wonder and beauty of of it all.

And mostly I'm just grateful for the ache, because to ache for something means that at one point you held it, even for just a moment -- you held it.