A Prayer Called Home

There is a prayer called Home

where there is a hand to hold

and a smile to give

and a chair to sit...

where there are stories to share

colors to see

and laughter to flow through your bones...

where there is quiet afternoon

and music that lifts from a back room...

where mess are made

then cleaned up with gentle, tired hands...

where a weary head can rest

and there is a hem to hold

with bread to feed your soul...

in a prayer called Home.

Photo - me and my grandpa, 1976. I am 5.
He died of cancer when I was 14. Several weeks before dying, he told me not to forget who I am. It wasn't long after that I promptly began to forget...silently look the other way.
I have been remembering. I am remembering.
...the past 4 years, one year, six months...
I am remembering. It hurts my belly. I laugh. I cry.
I am coming home.
I am!