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.