Home

It’s the seemingly endless five minute walk up the lightly graveled, manure filled drive, dodging the expired cow patties, led by the dim light of the reflection of the moon on the thin tattered blanket of snow. It’s the smell of livestock resting on the hills in the distance, which burns the interior of my dry frozen nostrils. The elated barks of my furry companions pierce the cold silence as they wait for my arrival with sopping, wet tongues in the smoke filled house of broken families past. It’s the aged, exhausted face that waits at the door, instantly brightened, energized by my reckless youthfulness. We sit in our self sabotage on a very tattered loveseat, in bizarre contentment with smiling hearts, a cup of warm chamomile balanced by slippered feet. The faint hum of a ukulele, the TV waiting for a command, as it plays the remains of a long expired program that was prompted by the other. It’s the feeling I have when I drink that cup of hot tea. The way my heart feels in a certain presence of another. The eagerness to get to the top of the snow covered driveway to this place I call home.