There is a home in my dreams. It is more than a house, more than a place. Though the sky is only an impression of vastness tinged with pink, it is a horizon that echoes in my waking thoughts. The fence provides a simple shield against the unknown whiteness beyond the sky, and the sun is somehow caught in each white plank so that the whole of it glows yellow, a necklace, a crown, a warm fire on a cold night. In my dreams this home is mine, and I know every pebble of the grounds, every nail and beam in the slim three stories. The home of my dreams is small; it could fit in the palm of my hand, so that I can take it with me wherever I go. On the open seas or in the wet wild jungle, this home is my companion. It is almost a square, thin and tall and proud in a quiet, humble way. No great wide gates, no lions to guard the doors. All are invited into my home, and the wood-plank door opens at the gentlest touch. I never enter the home, not in my dreams. It contains every possibility. Each room is a room where I have lived, each floor built from my past. The home is simple, true, and small, but it is infused with a sense of peace and safety that cannot be explained. There is a home in my dreams, and when I wake I keep it nestled in my chest, and I can never be afraid, or lost, because I bring my home with me when I go.
Image by April Milne