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.
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| Home is where the coffee percolates :) |
