I wish there was a better word for
Home.
Bigger
Grander.
All encompassing.
Something that could express
the peace
I feel;
So rare and comforting.
I feel it in the changing seasons,
in the drizzle and mist.
In the greens and blues of
the Pacific
and the chill of perpetual fall.
I hear it in my mother's
giggle
as we clink glasses
and swing on the porch.
It is in the taste of
my brother's BBQ ribs
In his voice as he mumbles
in the kitchen.
It is in my father's silence
as we sit for hours;
Understanding that quality time
doesn't mean a need
to talk.
Home
is the smell of roasted nuts
that waft from the Thames
in cold January.
It is in the softer lilts and
starlit skies
where history meets the present.
It is in the chimes of Ben
in the creak of ancient floors
and a farewell hug of a closest freckled friend
in an Oxford garden.
And
-unexpectedly-
It is in the brush of a hand
as he walks by.
In the glint of brown eyes
as he clocks your every move.
It is in the ease of his speech
and the heart in your throat.
I wish I could bottle up
Home
and take it wherever I go
No matter the people or
destination.
Then I could pop the cork
when I feel alone
and wrap myself
in its memory.
