I head home to Arizona a week from tomorrow. First time in a very long time three and a half years to be exact. I have my reasons for not going back sooner, some of it is life going on, some of it is money, and the big part of it is because... Well I have been afraid to. I am not sure what I am most afraid of, is it that home has not changed at all or that I have changed too much, or the reverse of that.

I miss the Southwest everyday. I am not sure why I miss the west, I guess it is a soul thing. Sometimes when I am in traffic I hear the familiar 'BOOM..BOOM...BOOM' followed by the wail of an accordion, coming from a neighboring car. I don't care how cold it is I will roll down my windows. Growing up it used to drive me nuts 'BOOM...BOOM..BOOM' all the time everywhere you went. The Ranchero men in their white wranglers, silk shirts, and snake skin cockroach killer boots. Whistling at you from the window of their trucks through their gold capped teeth, heads crowned with a cowboy hat that looked like a taco. To the fanfare of 'Boom...Boom...Boom'. What once was one of my biggest peeves is now a quaint reminder of home.

I also miss the smells and the feel of the air. Beans, lard heavy tortillas, dirt, horses, saddle soap, hay, and sweat. I have never run across that combination anywhere else but home. The wind blows nine million miles an hour, almost everyday. It is hot, dry and clear; sound and smell travel far. During onion season, the smell carries from the fields to the cotton gin about seven miles away. At night you can get the faint smell of alfalfa, cotton trash and mesquite. As the desert cools down the air hits this perfect temperature it is warm and soft; like a perfectly drawn bath that is made with still air.

The drop in temperature is the internal cue for any good desert rat to stop and look west. The sky is set a blaze like an O'Keeffe interpretation of Pollack. Aubergine, teal, crimson, shredded by blacks, grays, and white are strewn across the heavens. No rhyme or reason to the madness of colors, yet always as it should be. Chaotic and cosmically necessary, like god sweeping away the mandala of the day that has been created. The stars and moon start to rise as the air gets cooler, and in that moment you know that you are apart of everything, but are nothing in every breath you take.

I am still really scared to go home, but I guess I can not anticipate I can just be. Even if the people and places have changed, even if things get strained and old hurts are brought up at least I know I can get a good burrito and watch the sun go down.