Coming back

Last night, Mr. Nielson slowly walked through my bedroom door. 

I could tell he was sad; he had just packed up our life in 

Arizona into a moving truck. 

He shared how difficult it was for him to say goodbye to our back porch, 

where we had shared so many meals together.

He told me how horribly painful it was to say goodbye to the 

beautiful 2-story tree house he constructed in the backyard with
 his own two hands and the Lil Nies surrounding him.

Mr. Nielson lay next to me in tears. 

He smelled like the cologne I had given him for Christmas last year in that house. 

"I sprayed it on before they boxed it up... it reminds me of Arizona... it reminds me of you," 

he softly said. "The kitchen was lifeless without you."

Every evening, music would fill the kitchen, and the children and

 I would dance until Mr. Nielson came home. 

As soon as we heard the familiar sound of his motorcycle, 

the children would rush outside and 

beg for rides—even before I had the chance to kiss him.

Life in AZ was a treat. The sounds, smells, neighbors,
 family and our home made us so happy and content.

And I miss it so much it hurts.

Mr. Nielson has returned to lots of snow instead of the mild

weather in Mesa.
The gray skies here in Utah cast a gloomy atmosphere against the 

snow-capped Wasatch Mountains and I couldn't help but long for Mesa to be with me. 

A new life has been promised to me here, 

and I hope to play in the snow with the children one day.
Someday, maybe I will even dance again with them in our new kitchen
and even vacuum with the new vacuum that

Mr. Nielson got for our new home on Briar Avenue.
There is still hope.