A Place Called Home

I hear ..
...the radio,
on low-play,
...the windchimes,
inside and out,
...the fridge humming
...my near-sleep breathing,
...the quickening of my heart,
louder than any self-doubt.

I smell ...
...shampoo and cream rinse
...the cool sweat of love spent
...ginger, spice and citrus
...a burnt incense and sage
...warm dog
...chilled August air
...beeswax lip balm
...you on my skin and hair.

I see ...
...the skewed pattern of an afghan
...a myopically blurred ceiling
....the glow of the porch light,
...the future looming,
...less of the past in trespass
...a long journey's end
...the sign post
that says,
"Time to begin again."

I speak ...
...less and less evil,
...closer to my own tongue,
...words laced with certainty,
...no angry words against self,
...when spoken to and when not,
...with purpose, on purpose,
...with levity and spirit
...because I am.

I feel ...
...a heart's heat like wildfire
...a place called home
...promises can be kept
...bricks will begin to crumble
...sticks and stones not an issue
...less trapped, less scared
...happiness in the first place
...joy for the keeping.

 

..."Home is where the heart is," free to beat, and not really trapped behind a stubborn sternum and the rib cage.