We got the street lights, we got it all right, we got this whole night, carry me home

There’s this stretch of roadway just south of my hometown that I’ve always loved, where you go around a bend and suddenly find yourself surrounded on both sides by towering pine trees. The road gradually climbs from there, taking you out of this beautiful, tranquil valley. But the feel of that short passage – the indescribable power of those trees and the many, many years they’ve been there – lingers for the rest of the drive.

Throughout my life, that spot on the road has always been the checkpoint – the spot where, when I pass through it, I know I’m home again. I came to feel that way during college, when I drove that road literally hundreds of times to get back to my parents’ house – for weekends, or Christmases, or summer vacations. I kept feeling that way after I graduated, when the visits home became less frequent, and therefore, that much more precious. I still feel that way today, when I come back into town after a vacation, or even after a quick jaunt downstate for a concert. No matter how many times I pass into that forest of pines, I always feel the same way about it, like I’ve just entered the gravitational pull of the place I love most, and can lay whatever burdens I’ve been carrying down. “Rest easy child,” those trees seem to whisper; “everything will be alright. You’re safe here.”

“You’re home.”