“Crossing the Mississippi was the first time I really believed we were really moving back.
Back to Georgia.
Back to the South.
When we'd moved west to Colorado, crossing the Mississippi was a momentous occasion. We were so excited for a new adventure that reaching the river's west banks felt freeing. With the help of John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" on the radio, we'd done it. We had officially spread our wings and left the South.
But for as much as we loved campsites overlooking the Rockies and winters spent on the slopes, after a few years we found ourselves missing the hot, lazy days of summer, the easy conversation between strangers in the grocery store, and the excitement of Saturdays spent between the hedges. Which is how, three years later, we found ourselves back on the west bank of the mighty Mississippi- this time heading east.
The crossing itself wasn't anything awe-inspiring. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have even realized it was the Mississippi if not for the sign. We'd crossed at a narrower point and thanks to it being one of those gloomy, overcast days where even the shadows stay inside, the water was murky and drab. The clouds didn't part, nor did I hear angels sing.
But even so, something inside me clicked the moment we drove onto the east bank.
We were home.”
-Courtney Khail