Come Home.

Her e-mail was a welcomed old friend walking in from out of the rain. I had never met this woman, we had only shared words in our poetry tribe. My minds eye saw her gray cloak on and hat in hand, the rain had darkened her shoulders and she was not sure I wanted her presence, so she stood back.

I jumped up, thrilled to see her. I hugged her in my minds eye and held on to her. It took a few seconds but finally her shoulders dropped and I felt her hands upon my back reciprocating the hug.

She said: “You ran away from the tribe, we miss you.” I asked her to stay and share a mug of coffee, I took her clock and draped it over a chair.

Her eyes were large and soft and sincere. Her voice concerned. I busied myself with lighting a fire in the hearth. The room was waiting for my reply —it seemed to be holding its breath. I had not thought about going back.

When I thought of my old poetry friends, I got a lump in my throat. I truly missed them, yet the space we met had become trite. There were too many people crowded in that room, too many new writers that didn’t have a clue who I was and I didn’t know them. To be fair, it was exhausting meeting all those hungry writers whose ego I totally understand. I didn't have it in me to buoy them up. 

Once the fire was roaring and the mugs of coffee were in hand we sat upon the sofa content with the warm flickering golden light. 

“What happened?” She asked. 

“I couldn’t reciprocate to someone that I loved. So I ran.” I sighed.

She sighed and asked in a whisper, “Do you still love that someone?”

I swallowed a gulp and nodded yes. She reached out and touched my thigh, her hand warm and soothing. “But, you’ve changed. So maybe the love has changed.” 

I looked up and met her eyes they were the most genuine caring compassionate eyes.

All the words were caught in my throat. I just looked into her eyes and blinked back the tears. I raised my mug to my lips, and realized my hands were shaking.

We sat there for a while, no words spoken. We let the fire talk to us, the steam of the wood hissing and crackling happily. The fire knew it needed to step up and be the entertainment for us. We were learning the dance of new words in a different place. The silent warmth comforting enough.

I took her cloak from the chair, it was dry and warm. I draped it over her shoulders and noticed her lavender fragrance. She turned and hugged me tight. As she pulled away she said; “Come home.”