Just some fiction-
Enough about me, he said. What do you see?
I closed my hazel eyes, and thought. But you must open your eyes to see. My eyelids fluttered open, and I grinned.
To me, I began, I see tangled sheets and sleepy yawns. I see tousled hair and the peppy voice of mother’s morning song. I see faded light mingling with the morning hue of dim blue. I see clinking silverware and crunching cereal. Grumpy sighs, and shuffling feet. I see a sink peeping with dishes. I see the birds arise-but so do the people. I see warm laughter, and toys scattered about the worn carpet. I see working hands, and pearly smiles. I see curious bodies peeping around the corner. I see food. Not just food, but a feast. A steaming, warm, delectable feast. I see hungry lips and excited eyes. I see peace. A reverent peace while the Word is being read. I see voices. Singing, smiling voices. I see children who are hungry. Not hungry for food this time, but summer. I see children with grass-stained feet. I see them climbing trees and building forts. I see lemonade pop-cicles and wild purple mulberries. I see sleeping people lying on the bed, wrapped in a thick quilt. I see learning. I see stories being told, and questions being asked innocently. But I also see anger. Imperfect, broken anger. Pointed fingers, and whispers. But then comes forgiveness. I see the bubbling bath waiting in the bathroom. I see tired eyes and worn out bodies. I see splashing. I see playing. I see damp towels hanging on the metal hook. I see inky sky and glowing light. I see monster pajamas. I see cartoons playing upon the screen, their eyes captivated. I see cuddling pets, and bedtime stories being read. And then silence. That’s what I see.
Is that all? He asks. Yes. Seeing is not only observing with your eyes. To really see, you must feel. Hear. Taste. Touch.
That is beautiful, he says. What do you call it? I smile. I call it home.