Coming Home

‘Coming Home‘ by SaRidie

What does it mean to come home?

Is it simply arriving at a familiar destination, or can it not also be a notion of unique understanding?

Is it a fleeting moment in time or might it also offer being present to another over a lifetime of years?

Perhaps the thought of – or the nearness to – something sacred may be all you need to be at home – to feel the relief of belonging and the closeness of something meaningful.

Sometimes mere proximity is enough…

Coming home is

the first snowfall of winter, just beyond the windowpane this morning.

It’s the cadence of breath from the dog and the warm body sharing the bed.

It’s the cuckoo clock – marking time in its own weight, measuring the years of a family,

and a sunrise walk with the dog when the moon is still there too, guiding your way.

A box of Girl Scout cookies left on the front porch by a neighbor

and the familiar creak of the stairs, and sound of breakfast puttering in the kitchen are part of it,

and so are hands that fit just so around a warm mug in the morning.

It’s a “Hello?” just inside the backdoor when one of the kids comes home,

and a good book that waits with you at the airport, or the train station, or the dentist’s office.

Coming home is the the nascent sun, gaining strength and trajectory as spring draws near,

and also the patient remnants of last year’s garden – scraggly and limp detritus, wanting for re-creation.

Coming home is stepping into the quiet of the classroom before the new day begins, and loving who will be there soon,

and the thought of an afternoon nap to revive.

It is the dog at the front window, watchful for your homecoming, and a comfy couch waiting to receive your heft.

Coming home is snippets and ruminations and slices

for a new March,

of writing and reading

with you.