Home. It's time. Early morning light streams golden warm across boot leather smooth... and my heart calls home. Through generations lived out, home catches tears of joy... tears of sorrow... they wash the view clear. They spill together upon this solid ground of family... and nourish life.
Home is where necks are hugged first and words are spoken second. It's where mom's bread rose full and tender in oven's glow. It's where the milkman delivered clear bottles of purest farm cream to the door, and corn stretched tall all around. It's where Grandma's potatoes sizzled in morning's skillet, and crisp emerald cucumbers soaked up summer flavor in crocks heavy. Mom's stitches gathered Sunday dress ruffles. Daddy would hoist me to his lap on the tractor. A white plank tree swing grew worn in the middle, arching high above tiger lily blooms nodding orange in slightest breeze. The bed of Daddy's '52 Chevy was the ladder for two little girls stretching on tip-toes to reach peaches plump with promise. Cattle called low across rolling pasture, and the sweet smell of spring hay filled my lungs with life breath.
Across every numbered mile from these Georgia foothills, an unbroken prairie horizon stretches in sunrise glory and my whole being sighs content. It's time to be home.
When I was scarcely more than a girl, my daddy, burdened more by heart than by the succession of boxes taped and labeled, loaded everything I owned into a truck bound for half a country away. With eyes earnest on mine, his caution came gentle... I was going too far from home.
Simple girl. I don't know how many times I've said those words. A proud farmer's daughter. Daddy, a farmer's son. I've been spun around a city block a time or two. Awe poured hush in the presence of world leaders who brought peace and knew war. Adrenaline coursed high, bustling across the floor of the New York stock exchange, where one nod of the head could build or topple lives. Twirling across cool ballroom marble on balmy ocean nights, dresses swirled in the flowing grace of little girl dreams. But those little black dresses don't fit as well as Grandpa's flannel shirts.
Home is where our hearts are planted in the fields of family.
Morning light casts long its beauty of clarity. I see a couple little boys with seeds to plant. It's time to go home.