I am struck lately by a bone-deep homesickness. After more than four years living abroad, the missing of family and friends is familiar to me, as is the occasional longing for a Hershey’s bar with almonds or a plate of Chili’s Southwestern Egg Rolls, but this recent longing for home is something quite different.

It all started, I think, when Olof, the kids, and I were on our way home from a weekend visit to some friends who live about two hours southwest of us. We had stopped for lunch at a roadside restaurant, and after we had eaten Olof called his parents to tell them where we were and when we would be by to pick up our dogs from their house. At that moment I was overwhelmed by a sudden desire to be back in Idaho, driving home from Lewiston and calling my mom to say, for instance, that we were just outside Craigmont and would be home soon.

It was much more than just wanting to be where things are familiar — it was a desire to be where I belong. I tried to explain to Olof, but I don’t think he really understood. It’s about more than knowing where the landmarks are and being able to calculate mileage and travel times from them. It’s about holding a place–or perhaps its holding you–somewhere much deeper than your consciousness. For me to say to my mom (or anyone else who grew up where we grew up) that I’m just passing by Craigmont says far more than merely how many miles or minutes I am from where I’m going, and I don’t think I can explain it any better to someone who doesn’t understand what I mean.

As we left the roadside restaurant that afternoon a few weeks ago, I could not shake the yearning to be home and suddenly a series of thoughts I’d never entertained occurred to me: my husband works from home; he could work from anywhere in the world as long as he had internet access; Sweet mother of all that is holy … we could move home.

I was nearly euphoric at the thought for several minutes, until reality reared its ugly head and I started thinking about all the very practical reasons that we could do no such thing. Oh, if we were of a mind to do so, we could surely move to the United States and settle in comfortably enough there, but the thing is, I don’t want to move just anywhere in the States. I honestly want to move home, back to the tiny town in the middle of miles of forest and farmland where I grew up. I don’t want to live in one of the larger towns within a few hours’ driving distance, and I certainly don’t want to move to a city. But if we were to move to my hometown we would be putting all of our eggs into the one basket of Olof’s current job, and that hardly seems prudent. If we were to make that move I’d want to stay put, and there’s barely more than a fair to middling chance that that would be possible.

Ultimately, then, if I can’t live there, the next best place for me and my family is here, where we live right now. And I am happy here, in the main. I think I’m just reeling because I never fancied myself someone to whom location mattered a great deal. I have always maintained that living one place is more or less the same as living in any other place. I certainly never imagined feeling an actual physical yearning to return to my hometown, a place I’ve felt as much disdain as longing for in the years since I left it.