Can we, truly, ever go home again?  A few weeks ago, God and my many antagonists made it so.

A rental truck will appear in my driveway, less than 3 weeks from now…Quarter Acre Wood Cottage will be emptied of inhabitants higher than dustbunnies and the land sushi that cockroaches and other cretins once were to now missed cats.

I return home to a family, the only practicing Christian in the bunch.  In South Carolinas’ Bible Belt full of Charismatics, I am known for having stretched and tried the boundaries of Christian patience and resiliency.  Now no longer a loud-mouthed renegade,  it’s apparently MY TURN to offer Christian kindness and charitable tolerance.

Back, then, I shall go….to the neighborhood of a mother who holds football fan grudges.  Back, I think, to a town that, as the rush hour fades off and away down the local interstate highway exit, the skies roll out a blanket of dark blue, soothing my fear of the night with a generous sprinkle of stars.

Published in obscure locales as a poet and spirit writer, I shall slink back into town, along the edges and through the countys’ metaphorical back door.

Thank God, dog Jenna is the silent, sweet, nurturing type;  in we will creep, the noise of my keyboard and a rumbling solo motorcycle surprising the slumbering Never Leavers with a dash of creative hailing.

I will have come home…to seek the transparent…to seek the faces I’ve so left love in the dimples of.

To find my roots, and soar upon my now mature wings.