Their weight sinks into the carpet then the floorboards beneath, permeating slowly into the concrete and the earth.
Footprints of time and memory.
My head turns quickly to catch the shadow of a moment, a laugh, a sigh.
In the softness of home, the memories rock me.
Gently floating across my mind and falling in waves that ripple like a rock skidding across a mirrored pond’s surface.
The air holds promises kept and broken.
Words spoken long ago or tongues stilled out of respect and wisdom.
Home has been privy to solitude, closed doors, deep thoughts, and heart’s cries.
When nowhere else would shelter, when no one else would hear,
When memories were once today’s and tomorrow was still promised.
Home was and is something fleeting, yet always steadfast.
Home is where your head lolls and you fall asleep on the couch after a meal of Thanksgiving.
It’s often Mom or Dad. Or scattered across miles and held tight in a brief visit.
It’s childhood memories, the laughter and the tears.
It’s rainy mornings and a steamy cup of coffee.
It’s snowy afternoons when hands cold from fort-making wrap around a hot mug of cocoa.
Home is said to be where your heart is, but it’s also where you’re given your heart.
Then as we grow, it’s scattered across the country, inside different people.
The pieces you’ve given away. Willingly and unwillingly.
Wrested over time or given at a glance into the warm brown eyes of a puppy.
Home is inside you and I.
It’s set across years and as we age,
And love and lose, it resides between heaven and earth.
Home is never lost, but rarely whole in one person or place.
But there are moments when the feeling of home is found in one terribly sweet piece of the present.
Grasp it loosely, examine it fully,
For the weight will sink into the carpet then the floorboards beneath, permeating slowly into the concrete and the earth.
Footprints of time and memory.
Of home.
