Home is sometimes a place or a plot of land, or a house full of memories, the smells of Christmas dinner cooking on the stove, or home is a person. No matter what home is to you, it is ensouled deeply in your heart, and no matter how far away you are, home will always be with you. Here is my little dedication to home I wrote in my forties. Seems like a long way away now. Please enjoy it and I hope it brings you a little closer….to home.
I began crying without provocation. No one had hurt my feelings, although I could feel them on the edge of my heart like an ice-cold coca cola hitting a bad tooth.
Tears come more easily now that I have come into my fourties and have lost my mamma in the process.
Pine trees lined the forest for miles and it was as if I could see far back in to the woods and into forever. My eyes soaked up the colors as if it were their first view of life. The trees and their fallen fruit of pine straw and cone wrapped around me like the finely crafted afghans mama use to make. I felt warm, safe and overwhelmed by the comfort of it all.
It had been years since I had seen this view or anything like it as I was working and living in an asphalt jungle. These are the choices we make I suppose to get a way from one horse towns and mama and daddy.
Before I knew it, the pages of my life began to turn like a brisk wind had taken me by surprise. As the tears seared my lips, I stared out of the glass and a silhouette of my mama greeted me in the reflection of the warm Georgia sun against the tall reveling pines.
I’ve come a hard way to realize that no matter how much we try to leave home, there is something that is greater than us that inextricably ties us to our roots.
Now, as I see the worry lines on my forehead and the chicken skin lying against my neck, I long for those simpler times and the smell of pine straw and the crunch of southern leaves beneath my feet.