on being far from home when you’d rather be back in front of the old stone hearth of your childhood home, stretched out upon the hardwood floor, its cool touch on the back of your legs and the heat of the fire burning the side of your face.
the smell of a home-cooked kitchen, of warm wet fur, and of pine from a fresh cut tree.
the taste of hot chocolate still fresh on your lips.
the feeling of toes regaining their senses after hours spent trudging through snow and ice.
the feeling of knowing your mother is still near, your father…
on being so far gone as to feel adrift amongst the lazy drifting floe of northern seas.
lazy and meandering and treacherous in its ambivalence.
the gentle knocking of hull against sea salt concrete, sharp and crystalline.
how I lost myself to the steep swells of a midwestern prairie rolling down upon me,
the wind across its wave carrying the brine of clock hands spinning,
a watch needing winding,
and time measured in knots.
the shouts from friends upon a distant eastern shore, calling me in, to swim no further,
for a storm sits firmly on my shoulders,
its dark clouds pushing me under.
memories of dimly lit winter days
walking walls of stone
through fields of white and grey,
empty trees, the feathers break the sky,
heavy footfalls crack cold crusted sheets,
smokey breath a quiet remembrance of life.
how one misses the sound of waves cracking thin shore ice along an Atlantic shore.
hello, old friends. we meet back at this same old place. again, our fingers and toes and ears and noses red and stinging within the fire’s light. and cradled amongst each other’s love we welcome the hopes for new beginnings.
how i became lost in the wilderness and wandered with jaw set against the cold and a determination to continue ever onward,
but knew, absolutely,
the only path out turned back toward softly muted loving voices and into the glow from fire warmed windows.