|Home is where the coffee percolates :)|
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Home—For me, when I think of “home”, I am once again seven years old. The coffee is brewing in a percolator; the light is dim in the small kitchen. My grandfather, a musician, sits in a metal chair, the daily newspaper spread over the table, “funnies’ waiting for a child’s gleeful chortles. The sweet smell of sausage and richly-buttered toast floats, welcoming, over the cast iron skillet. We celebrate the light of another morning. Yes, this is home.