One More About Home

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Home is not perfect. It rains occasionally and light bulbs burn out. Bills have to be paid and friends don't text back. Of course all that happens here, too. At home, though, I'm home. As self-evident as that may seem. With my things, my dogs, and my porch. There are imperfections to fix, like the bathroom floors, the holes in the screen doors, and some weird wood rot on the car port. I'd like new blinds in the living room and a dishwasher that actually works. However, home means my desk, my big chair, moonlight shining in through the kitchen window, and wind chimes singing in the breeze.

I know I tend to go on and on, but so does everyone, I think. They just don't know they do it. Or they don't do it because they take everything they have for granted. I have loved my house since the day I moved in. I just didn't call it 'home' til I moved away. It's sad, but far from too late. For months I wondered why my house hadn't sold. Then I realized why - I hadn't let it go yet. Because it's where I still want to be; where I still want to live. I love my little broke-down house on Burma Road. It may not be much and far from perfect, but I can't wait to go home.

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