There’s a fire in the outdoor fireplace.
The leaves are just beginning to turn. Not falling yet. But you can just tell.
They are soon.
It’s evening and the crispness in the air isn’t unwelcome. The smoke from the fireplace mingles with the smell of damp dew.
We aren’t into the holidays yet, but somehow the change of the season in the south makes a feeling like we are.
Holidays feel like home.
And so does the sound of my grandson’s laugh.
Rain on the roof.
Our old dog’s snore.
Smells of a roast cooking slowly in the kitchen.
My mom’s “Grandma Cookies” baking.
The view across the pond to my sister’s back yard.
Dust rising from the gravel drive..
Glare of the sun off the tin roof.
Touching a cozy sweater.
Patting my grandbaby’s back.
Feels like home.
This world is not my home.
But for now. Family. Friends. Are Home to me.