Coming home.
To a place that is made of flesh and blood and earth and sky.
A whisper in the falling night.
Woven together with scar tissue and starlight
Dotted with windows that look out onto horizons that I don't recognize.
Some into the future, and others into the past.
A home that has a door that often will not open.
And when it does it is usually just a crack.
I sit on the porch humming lullabies that might soothe a growling beast.
Most nights I sleep in the yard, hoping it will still be there when I awake.
I spend my days dreaming of the inside of that house,
Wishing to touch every corner of every dark room.
Wanting to fill it with light and music.
But when I reach the front steps I know that it is not time.
I would spend a thousand years planting flowers along the foundation of this place.
Hoping that there will come a day when all of those colors and all of that life can explain what I cannot.
And on the nights that this home disappears into the depths of an already dark night…
I will lie amongst the flowers in the quiet stillness and know that my heart is at home there too.
© Elizabeth McLaughlin | November 1, 2015
