Without understanding. I belong. Home. My home for years. I would be there now if not for misfortune turned to advantage.
My friend said, “I would just sit on this porch all day.” I did, for months. Paralyzed by doubt and indecision.
Spring and summer on that porch. Rustling in the weeds. A groundhog popping in and out defying gunshot. Boots eyeing a rabbit. Spiny thistles multiplying with the dropping of thousands of seeds. Voices of frogs croaking as if in serenade to sadness. Buzzing angry hummingbirds chasing off interlopers to the feeder. The faint tinkling of chimes muted by the loss of the clanging washer.
Why do you come home?