I find myself here, on Bee Branch, living in the house where my grandparents raised my mother and her siblings. This house, built by the same man who built the church and nearly all the other houses in Harrell Hill in the 1900s, is like an archeological site. I can peel layers from the floor and walls and go back through the decades: the floral linoleum of my mother’s teenage years, the thin, shiny paneling that covers the older, rough bead board, and finally, the dull maple of 1910, worn down by the house’s first family for whom it was built.
Our house from the road on a cold gray day
I find myself in a new yet deeply familiar community, where neighbors make up for the valleys and woods that separate us by being extra loving and reliable. People whose eyes filled with tears when D and I came into church the first Sunday we were back.
I have come back to a place where the language is different yet instinctively known, and the primary questions, “Whose girl are you?” and, “Where you living?” situate the individual in the familiar web of reality that holds the world together.
She is a native 
You’re a beautiful writer!! I love and miss you so much!
You are in the place that you are meant to be.Stay and take care of it and it will stay and take care of you. You are where the spirits of your ancestors walk the hill and hollers. they came here in the late 17 and 1800s. they remain here.