There are bells here in Evora, the little town where I live in the east of Portugal. Bells that remind me of the trains I heard back home.
Home. A thing foreign to my tongue, a concept that escapes me.
Home was never the house I grew up in or the house by the lake that straddled Texas and Oklahoma that my grandparents expanded from a one room cabin. Home was never the dwellings or house I shared with my husband of sixteen years, the one I tried everything to hold on to when we parted ways. Home is not my father's house by the lake in the too far north of the northwest.
Though I think of these places fondly, if I ever thought a place Home, it was the little house on Loree where my girls had a yard for nine years. Where they met the neighboring pups at the fence. Where one barked at the rumble of cars passing and the other sat still in the grass, lording over her domain.
Perhaps Home is where we three all grew old, that place where my loves last breaths were drawn, where life took a turn and I chose to leave.
In my little town of Evora, I surround myself with nature and color, create days of health and and constantly discover beauty in the cobbled streets I trespass. Still, I wonder if I'll ever find Home - again?Or if I had it at one point and didn't know.
"home, where my love lies waiting silently for me..." ~ Homeward Bound, Simon and Garfunkel
