My favorite sound. The chirping of birds on a summer morning. But not just the cacophony of chirps. Its the echo of different songs being called out to one another. The harmony of each singular voice calling out in their own original sound. Yet when they all come together it elevates into a completely new thing. A beautiful thing. A thing that would be beautiful as individual things, but together makes a symphony that caresses your ears. It is the sound of home.
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Dry. Cold, dry ground. Winter here is bleak. There is no green, just grey. The color of ice and cold. Chapped lips and chapped fingers around an ax handle repeatedly swung at precariously set chunks of wood. Stubbed toes and Lego bricks underfoot. Soft carpet and cold tile kept at bay by the bundles of socks over feet. It is the feel of home.
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The taste explodes on my tongue. Sweet. Bitter. Thick. Dark. It is the taste of chilly mornings spent cuddled on the couch. Golden rays stream through the windows, leaving a puddle of warmth on the carpet for the cat to lay on. The taste is reminiscent of the spring to come. Yet when those bright mornings bring their warmth and energy the taste reminds you of the cold. It is nostalgic and new each time. It is the taste of home.
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Wet. Damp ground and crunchy leaves. The first rain pattering on the tin roof, a symphony of scents as the heavens pour down onto the summer-long heated leaves. Cold mornings and the smell of burning wood and ash. Deja-vu melts into the mind, trickling into the cracks before the feeling can be grasped. The smell of home.
Rini Gorman 