Home.

It's quiet in the van, thankfully, the toddlers having given up the ghost. Dad is driving and concentrating on the hazy road, squinting and murmuring to himself. I snuggle closer to the window and lean my head back, grateful for the hush. Somewhere in the last hour, the lush tree line gave way to rolling fields, and the sky grew larger as I let my eyes pass over the curves of the land.

I hear Mom rustle from sleep from somewhere behind me. I crane my neck to catch her eye and smile that 'can-you-believe-they're-finally-asleep' smile, the one that looks a little sleepy but content. "Oh!" she says, brightening.  "We're in Illinois!" I nod and try to shake sleep from my lids.

The silence is calming until I say, "I love vacations and it's nice to get away but can I say this? I really feel like this is home", with a sweep of a hand I motion toward the sun, blue sky, playfully rolling fields full of seeds and dirt and earth. She nods. "I can go anywhere in the world, but this is where I feel normal".

And it's there, palpable, hanging between us. This unspoken love for the Plains.

Her mother and father's people have lived here generations. Her father's family has been here since the 1800s, and maybe earlier. Artists and immigrants from Germany, England and the Czech Republic, nestling in the tiny towns that dot the landscape. The love of this land is in our blood. Somehow it's just home.