Home

The memory comforts me

Home, a house set in a garden, abounding in

seasonal colors and fragrances

A mixture of old and new- wood, glass and trim

The back yard-tall pines

Fresh fallen pine needles

Its essence, the purring of the attic fan

On  a hot summer night

The front porch, my own private echo chamber

Where I could sing “Over the Rainbow” in the rain

The kitchen, the gathering place

The table with a red formica top

Roast beef simmering on a Sunday morning

The taste of fresh blackberry cobbler

Hot biscuits and gravy, 

No special occasion, just home

But, this isn’t home anymore

Yet, home still comforts me

Traces of the familiar are tucked here and there

Home isn’t singular

It’s now plural

It’s tangible and intangible

It’s past and present

Home has become people, places and personalities

Home, wherever I am

Surrounds me, clothes me

Warms me, soothes me

Protects me and

Lets me be me

Home is a state of mind 

A feeling and from my past

To the present 

Home is the the 

Source of my wholeness.

Brenda Ball

December, 1983

Dhahran, Saudi Arabia