Finding Home

How's your writing?" We were having lunch over at our house and he asks the question. Sir Billy's tone was one of genuine interest. I answer. We continue the conversation. Ma'am Gie marvels at my boys. "Garret's nose is getting handsomer. Morgan has grown bigger than the last time we saw him" We talk about many important things-- plans, dreams, friendship, the respective energies we bring to ou r days, to our relationships, birthday plans. And we laugh. My favorite part when we get together-- we laugh the deep-down- in the- belly kind of laughter. "Why haven't you written about the painting I gave you?" He had asked me the week after he gave me his watercolor painting. I did not have a straight answer at the time. I could not very well ask the Master Watercolorist, "How to write about something so precious? How to write something so valuable as the giving of one's heart or a piece of it at least?" I re

"I am terrible with goodbyes," I say. We take one last picture. The van drives away. We go back inside.  There are only two breakfast plates left.  The painting of a vibrant red rose greets me. Love, it seemed to say. The guest room is cleaned. A frame sits on the side table. On the wall, the white rose painting hung. Quiet,  it gently said. I am terrible with goodbyes. Time flies so fast. The days are too short. I need more than sixty minutes in an hour. The words flow. Laughter fills every room. Stories are told. Many of them, one after another. Movies. Food. Family. Travel. School. Careers. Passion. Love. Life. Home.  I am terrible with goodbyes. Tyler, our Dutch Shepherd looks at the bags and luggage lined up at the gate, whimpers. Or maybe it is just his ears bothering him. Garret peers into the guest room, eyes questioning.  "Where are they, Mama?' he seemed to ask. I remember the day. I am wrapped in an embrace so tight. I have never been hel

Sailboats, again? You asked me Smirking, Eyes all knowing, rolling. Of course. Don't ask why but I will tell you Remember when I drifted to you? I did not know why either, I just did. You at the time, smiled Or was it a smirk? Needless to say I steered my oars In your direction, The pier was free I disembarked and saw your door was open You bade me with no words, "Come in." I knocked, you opened. I spoke, you responded And we laughed A million laughs Did we weep? Don't even ask. Even as we speak or not Days, weeks or months, I still drift to you with words, I miss you, My friend. Sometimes we laugh. Most times we ponder. Other times we weep. Several times we reveal and recant. And then We set sail again. So of course, sailboats. We go where the wind takes us. When the time comes to dock, we do. Drop down our anchors, Walk to the pier, knock on doors,  and just like that, our arms wide, We say, "How are yo