It’s midnight.
It is one of those rare nights so bitterly cold
that our large dog is curled up inside on a rug
and moreover, no one minds at all.
There are paper bags of groceries on the kitchen floor yet to be put up
from one of the infrequent times Mom buys healthier food.
She really likes when she gets to do that.
Most of the ginger snaps are already gone.
A fire is blazing in the hearth.
A stack of dry wood waits patiently on the ancient bricks,
both a courtesy of Dad.
Oh, the countless hours we invested in collecting that firewood.
And surely, everyone else must be fast asleep.
And I feel this feeling-
not uncommon, but not untreasured
whenever it is felt.
This is the dream I want never to wake up from.
This is the place where life’s storms disappear.
This is peace.
This is love.
This is home.
