There are a few things that make a house feel like home. My mama’s quilts on the beds, and the back of the couch — some of them worn thin from more than a decade of decadent napping. My brother’s pottery on the bookshelves, wedged between stacks of great stories begging to be read. A few pots of tomatoes and herbs, stretching their green leaves toward the sun on the veranda. Knitting needles with new projects. Dirty casserole dishes soaking in the sink, with the smell of simmering garlic, onions still lingering — a scent that doesn’t fade until the morning coffee is brewing. Handwritten letters in the mailbox, flag up. Handwritten letters received, with postmarks from the last place we called home.
Nelson, is burrowed at the foot of the bed, yipping as he chases some woodland critter in his sleep. A happy man rests, snoring next to him. I crack open the morning newspaper, dewy after being retrieved from the front lawn, pour a cup of that coffee, and settle in to a new day.
A new home. A new life.