Home

The drive back was mercifully uneventful. And fast. Not like the drive down, with the constant and persistent lane closings for road work that doubled the length of the trip. It’s quiet here. Arriving just before midnight to a sleepy street and still energy in the house, I notice my footfalls on wood floors and the texture of the grass rug and the cool refreshment of water from the fridge.

I think about the home I’ve left and the place I’ve come home to and the home that resides only within me. I know where I live.

The Great Summer Writing Retreat of 2019 continues. One hundred days of writing unedited ideas and following a prompt to its sometimes illogical conclusion.

Continuing to type one-fingered on my cell phone. A whole different sort of discipline.