You are home. You wake up with the sun in your eyes and the chirp of sparrows as they squabble over the bird feeder. Another year has gone by. Another candle has been added to the Birthday cake. But you are at home.
That was last year. Today the day hasn’t walked in from some foreign film. The cars parked on the road outside are as real as the dust laden leaves on the potted plant at the kitchen window. There are no deceptions except those conjured by over-active imaginations.
There are no epochal moments to be celebrated. Nothing exceptional to be wished for. For what more do you need when you are home? This is where you hang your head*. This is where it all comes together in peace. You open the window and the sparrow sitting on the ledge looks you straight in the eye. There is no escaping the facts. For this is home.
(*'Home is where you hang your head', attributed to Groucho Marx.)
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