This is my Kansas: the Flint Hills, that light, those people. But the road is my Kansas too, telling me it’s okay to go. I was born in Kansas thirty years ago and never left for more than a few months at a time. I lived in the same house until I was twenty-two; the same room since I was five. That said, I grew up exploring. We took long road trips every summer and I saw the mountains, the desert, both oceans and the gulf. Though we toured some of the largest cities in America, nothing ever beat coming home, driving down I-70 into the rolling hills with the expansive blue sky above us. Sometimes a haze would hang heavy in the air as if the sky had been sad in our absence. In September, my husband and I moved to Austin, Texas for his job. I didn’t want to. But after months of talking and crying and fighting, we are here. It’s been a struggle for me. I miss my Kansas. Thank God that same road tells me I can always come home.