Twilight
Twilight only deepens as I rise from slumber in a bed that is not my own. A dog lifts its head as I pass by, just another traveler quickly gone in the long days of its life. Lights on a Christmas tree illuminate the darkened street, dotted here and there by streams of red and green and dozen other hues. There is no moon. A newly fallen layer of white shrouds all evidence that ever anyone trod here.
A bell tolls. Signs of life erupt upon the world outside. The glare of a string of colour fades, a steady golden glow reaches even to the road, and still the twilight marches on. A single jogger heeds the call of the morning with a barely heard footfall. The snow comes with fresh fury, and before he is out of earshot, the marks of his own coming and going are no more. Through the wide panes of an open window, a businessman tries to look the part. The wailing of a baby in distress can be heard next door, and a frantic mother�s vain attempts to restore order too. Complete silence falls for a moment, and even the soft creaking of a rocking chair can be dimly guessed, the sound of an aged mind weighing the long years of its life. The darkness lifts a little.
Soon the sounds of a throng can be heard, from a myriad of times and places and walks of life, each going his own way and to his own tune. The child still wails, the tie continues to be stubborn, and, as ever, the rocking chair creaks. Dawn comes, and, like a veil that is suddenly, unexpectedly thrown back, I see it all with a vision beyond my sight. There is a small town, and each person lives their life differently. They claim it for their own, doing exactly what they love with whom they love.
And with a final burst of joy, I see myself in its midst. It might be only a borrowed bed, and soon my own footprints will be only a memory to this place, but I do no less than those who have walked these streets for years. It is a feeling long unknown to me, but I recognize it for what it is all the same: the feeling of coming home.
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