I began walking down the street as the large summer sun slowly made its descent over the horizon. Pointy polygon shadows produced by red roofs cover the street with a calm intentionality.
There are no cars. There are no barking dogs. There are no young boys or girls learning to ride their bikes. The streetlights crack on, plagued with synchronized arthritis as they eventually transition from weak flickers to onslaughts of fluorescence.
I look above the white, dented garage doors to my right to see shining numbers of gold and silver. Flags wave. Basketball hoops stand almost-straight. The world is as it should be.
Yet inside of me, deep down in the roots of my being, things are not as they should be.
Still walking, pacing through life's streets, I come over a small hill. I rub my eyes. I rub them again for good measure. Off in the distance, your house is brightly lit. There is not a single cover on any of your lamps. The air is salty.
Deep down, I am torn and broken, astonished and blown away by the magnificence of this beauty. The beauty of failure. It is not in the vast and colorful résumé of spirit and truth that I find beauty, but with my lack thereof. Before this day, I stood at achievement's feet, a mountain I was not able to climb solo, awaiting my award. Achievement was cruel and I'm certain they still are. I never failed when I hiked with you.
The pressing feeling starts in my feet; sandals producing well-deserved blisters. My calves stretch and stress gradually as I keep my eyes fixated on your house at the bottom of the hill. I stomp the pavement so gracefully as it slaps the soles of my feet back.
In my core, I am shaken by the expansive vocabulary others use to sum up feelings of guilt. Yet here I stand, mouth agape and tongue dry from the very same words, used to sum up feelings of guilt. My guilt. Every time I would hear those words, they flooded over me like an ocean. The seabed was my only resting place. I never felt this guilt when I swam with you.
The air thickened as I drew closer to your extremely illuminated house. A fog rolled in slowly, covering a multitude of shins and sprinklers and hydrants. Your lights continued to shine through it, though.
As far down as my roots go, I am burning with anger. A terrifying giant, equipped with a hot-red face and closed fists, weapons of mass reduction, consistantly wearing myself down and down and down. A heavy heart of anger outweighs a clear head of peace. I always felt at peace with you. I never burned with anger when I fought the fight with you.
Three gentle yet firm knocks in quick succession. I took a breath of fog and perked my ears. Silence infected the air. What if I failed to catch you before you left?
I knocked yet again, a little less gentle. The hard wooden door stops my already-sore knuckles in their tracks. Silence meets me in this place. What if my guilt repulsed you, sending you in the complete opposite direction?
I smashed desperately on that dampened door, one more time. Just one more time, I needed to. Only silence.
I turned the rounded and wobbly doorknob and pushed in. It opened, like I knew it would. You looked at me as you sat comfortably in your favorite chair, your body not fully turned towards me. Beyond you, the glimmer of a roaring fire in the fireplace. I step inside.
This is no house, this is home. This ground is holy. I take off my sandals. Closing the door behind me, I turn to go sit with you. You stand up from your chair, slowly and cautiously as you always do. You walk up to me, the fire still crackling loudly behind you. With your hands firm on my shoulders, you look directly into my eyes and smile. For a moment, silence reigned once again.
"Welcome home" you whispered gently. Oh so gently you whispered it.
With you again, at last.
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