Home Is Where the Heart Is
They came from a long way off, very old friends, at least the
man was. Another new wife we got to know and like. There was
wine. There was summer evening, a song sparrow serenaded
around a dessert of sliced fresh fruit and blueberry bread. We
started on the dirty dishes but left them in hot suds, there was
too much to show in the short time they were here. We traveled
around the old colonial home patched together with no money
and stories instead. They became lost in the small rooms, the
sloped ship-like floors, dim lighting. We laughed and visited in a
living room laid out for no company. It was obvious to see we
stretched out on the sofa two feet from the wood fire and
napped like kittens together through the winter. How could
anyone visit with that? When we made up their bed, crisp sheets
and pillow cases, they said they would sleep in their truck.
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© Bob Arnold
