“Here” was my answer when asked the question.

The question of where I want to go first when all of this is over.

The question of where I would choose to be if I could choose anywhere at all.

I blurt it out without thinking. The word conjured from primal magic, instinct-borne and propelled upward on the contraction of a heartbeat. It tastes like cloves and mint, and blades of chewed up grass, slides over my teeth, is weightless and heavy once spoken.

Tree branch shadows on the ceiling, old houses out of focus viewed though gauzy window sheers. Evening light gone gold, held in branches, burned slowly, surrendered reluctantly.

“Here” is the answer to questions not yet asked. Scenarios not yet imagined.

As long as Live Oak cast long shadows, whisper secrets behind veils of moss, Magnolia bloom just under the surface, orange blossom and salt water on the breeze.

As long as there is an upward contraction of my still beating heart, the answer will always be “Here.”