Into time you throw your best self, your worst self, the self you thought you’d lost on a school trip in the eighth grade and the self that only speaks in Pig Latin. All of your selves move forward into time where we all place our boats, our little boats with leaky hull and broken spar, our 32 foot yachts, our sturdy rafts. We sail as far as we can. We sail until the sea takes us and then we dive into ocean depths, down into a blueness that can never be taken back. Time takes us on this journey and Home is always forward, home is always the way out. It is the round opening we climb through to find the light, it is the ground beneath our impossibly small feet. Home is the breath and the hair we brush. Home is the small boat we wake up in each morning and the dark line of thunderclouds roiling on a distant horizon.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------(Rhonda)
I, this year, discovered my home. The concept was more..."domicile" for me in the past but has grown (or shrunk).
ReplyDeleteGreat read!
ose-lay y-may ig-pay atin-lay elf-say?
ReplyDeleteI think not.
Oh my God! Where'd it go?