The dark pockets of mom’s old house were something to see. It could be depressing too, how the leaning walls closed in on you. But for a Sunday morning in late August with the rain coming down I was glad for a taste of fall. Some candles and incense, soft music, a bird chirping somewhere, the whoosh of a car below, the sound of that old German dishwasher running. We meted out the time this way, in long leads. I yearned to be home because it was hard for me to relax anywhere, I was always someplace else. But I knew I’d be looking back here soon, and savored the moments in the corner of that dining room, it felt like the heart of the house. That’s where I did my best writing, where I came each morning to make the coffee and sit with my reading glasses while the light came up. I’d been doing that for 10 years now and who knew how much longer it would be. The not knowing part was maybe the best, the mystery.

Thanks to my dear friends and family who have joined me this past week on my visit back home to see my mom in Germany! This is my last post and I so appreciate all of you for reading and commenting these past several days. It makes the writing part real. Be well, Bill

Categories: prose, travel, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, Memoir, prose, travel