What a trip.

Seven weeks stateside.

Seven weeks nomadic.

Seven weeks of bliss-filled reunions, whole-hearted being and too-soon farewells.

Of shared breakfasts on lived-in screened porches,

And cupcakes near fresh water springs.

Of church hymns bellowed at unlikely hours,

Waist high in cool, deep-southern waters.

Of yoga, dockside, awake with only a very few fervent folks fishing,

Of backyard beers with 15-year friends, outnumbered by the sum of our offspring.

Of too many cooks in the kitchen

To ever grow tired of cooking.

Of too many small children screaming

For silence to ever feel awkward.

Of larger-than-usual laundry piles and chicken scrap bowls, overflowing.

And no care of the time, nor the place nor the day

Just so long as the kids have been fed.

Of realized dreams by talented friends

Like small farms that just might turn a profit.

And midwives and makers of beautiful sounds

Who get paid to do what they were made for.

Of mud-walled casitas, circa mid-1800s

Restored and made mindfully modern,

By capturing rains and harvesting sun

In lieu of rabbits or corn.

Of all four of my daughters, beneath one roof

Each one of them happy and thriving.

With opinions aplenty–feisty, headstrong,

And hardly a thing more in common.

So now that we’re home,

To the sand, to the waves

And the dishes, street tacos, our beds,

The concept of home has me head-in-hands-pensive,

Isn’t “home” that sweet place we just left?

Or is it the place we just moved from,

Our colonial, Maya-filled dream

Or maybe it isn’t a place, afterall

But a here-and-now, still state of being.

Because when I sit by a lake with these two,

I feel distinctly at home.

And when I wake to my folks sipping coffee,

I am home then, too.

With these boys by my side in a boat,

My home is afloat on the water.

And when this many dear old friends gather,

I’m at home, ankle-high in Bermuda.

Is it in me to love but not miss you?

Not to label the distance as “far”?

Because wanting is something I try not to do.

And judgments don’t serve me for much.

And when I’m beneath a Poinciana’s soft shade,

And she offers her sunset-hued blooms

And my knee-jerk response when you enter my mind

Is of longing or something akin,

The breeze will blow hot, not refreshing

And I’ll wish for a break from my kids

And I’ll long for my friends who help me make light

Of the burdens, and also to laugh.

But if I can hold you all close to my heart–

Send you love without needing you near

Then home is a place I cannot help but feel

And content, I’ll not want,

Only be.