“Erase from your vocabulary the word “someday.” Do not save things for “special occasions.” Take into account the fact that every day is special. Every day is a gift that we must appreciate and be thankful for. Wear your attractive clothes, wear your nice perfume, use your fine silverware and dishes, and drink from your expensive crystal glasses … just because. Live every day to the fullest and savor every minute of it.” ~ Rodolfo Costa
I don’t think the second of March will ever pass again that I don’t feel a hole in my heart. Here we are, three years after the F-3, and to me, it feels like it just happened. There are some days I just ache for my grandmother’s home, my home, and my hometown. I miss them as if they were people, not things, but living, breathing human beings. The town; she’s so very slow to come back. What little has cropped up feels devoid of character somehow. It’s not as if West Liberty was a picture postcard town before the tornado, it wasn’t, but it did have that small town, all-American Mayberry something about it. Main Street was lined with a mix of stone and wood buildings, shutters and porches and worn flat sidewalks and people. There were homes, real homes, dotting the landscape, each different in color and texture and more people. I feel like I won the lottery growing up in that little town. We left for Arizona for a time, but all I ever wanted was to go back. It’s where I knew I belonged. A place and its people – those people at the time of my growing – were a mighty force. It wasn’t all perfect, but it was perfect for me. I suppose I will always yearn for the West Liberty I understood, and for as long as I live, I will be grateful for what I had there for as long as I had it, warts and all.