“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke,
or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.”
- Charles Dickens
That’s where it began - right there in that home. She remembered it as the place she had all her “firsts” of life. When she was young, home was the image of mother’s lace, the smell of father’s coffee, and the sound of her picking out crude childish notes on the slightly flat piano keys. It was the epitome of a summer’s day, when worries were myths and tender fields rolled endlessly before her innocent eyes. It was the bench just five blocks down that Zachary gave her fluffy dandelions and a peck on her cheek for her 7th birthday. Home was that irrationally chaotic time when college began to beckon her away - when her weary eyes opened and the alarm clock fell subject to snooze for the seventh time. It was the exhausted hands which searched the newspaper for a summer job, and mother coming in with a mug of milk and sugar cookies to sit by her for a while. It was father’s tears as she hugged him one last time, before they drove off on the eight hour trip which would take them back “home.” Since that hug, she had learned to drift in and out of those memories. Those glimpses of eternity that seemed to penetrate time for a magical moment, and then disappear back into an undefined dimension. The very word “home” conjured a force beyond that of the wizards and gypsies of the world, as it lured her back into sweet memory of a far off beacon. Yet, home still had an uncanny presence even amidst its absence. Miles away, she could still feel the heartbeat of the home as the past drew her back to its bosom. It was home... and that was the beginning and end of it, all wrapped together into something she’d never be able to explain.
For my friend's wonderful counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project, go to http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com