Going Home

As the crow flies, the path that wanders through the enchanting tangle of the garden is only as long as a sip, and then a second sip, of coffee. Dark roast and pumpkin spice, in a blue pottery mug. Chrysanthemums spilling over crushed stone, brushing against your bare legs with the welcoming bloom of this is what you longed for all along. Old lace curtains fashion a screen door. Air laced with autumn leaves. This longing. To pack up the empty space. The absence in what you’ve come to know and travel the shortest distance to yourself. As the crow flies.