Home, Part 2
Into the Mountains of Hope I went.
I packed a bag and took a staff and journeyed inward and forward.
The Mountains of Hope are blue and distant. Which is fine, because sometimes I’m blue and distant.
I found home as I walked toward them, not yet arriving. I found home near the river as I soaked my feet, swollen and weary and dusty and bleeding. I found home as I slept under the stars in that green pasture, by that bubbling brook.
I’m not home yet, I thought to myself, even as I was tasting home and touching home and catching glimpses of home and carrying home in my bones. And I kept moving toward the Mountains of Hope.
I found home as I entered the forest of blood and claws and monsters, with their snarls and swipes and slashes. Home was a picnic in their midst, right there among them: a table in the presence of my enemies.
Home was with me every step of the way. Often it wasn’t until later that I understood he’d been there all along. Though sometimes I knew it in the moment.
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