Home

I planted Giant Sunflower seeds in the small lot between the sidewalk and driveway.  The ground is moist, fertile for change.  I bet they will grow.  In the summer, people from the park might cross the road to look at them.  Small children might tip their heads up wondering if the sun can be touched.  The birds and the squirrels will surely gather seeds. Come late summer, the bright yellow of the petals will wane; the stalk will become hard and dry.  Soon it will fall over or beg to be chopped down.

I am not finished yet.

I want.

I want a home of my own.

My mother's east coast garden blossomed for years after she had passed.  Rows of hostas, summer green and variegated.  Stalks of phlox that were once taller than me.  Zinnias dotting the bed that extended the length of our backyard. Pear and apple trees giving so much fruit we couldn't pick it all.  Even that magic could not last forever, except the daffodils that proliferate and bloom still.  I am like those bulbs that stay buried under cold ground and pop up here and there when it is time.

It is time again for my own home.  A beautiful, secure place that is all my own, with windows and window panes to look through, natural light, and a kitchen door to the garden.  Somewhere to come back to during my traveling years.  Somewhere beautiful.

Somewhere on the edge of a cliff.