Not Coming Home
Sometimes everything seems perfect exactly where you are. And still, you can’t help but heed the inner yen and move on.
And that’s exactly what he did one morning. He left everything behind. His home, his wife. I guess you could say that the poem left his rhyme.
It wasn’t out of lack of love or happiness. He had that with her. But for the first time he followed an unknown compass. He was like a leaf in the wind and it felt good. This was his journey.
The fresh smell of the meadow in the late morning sun made him sleepy. He lay sprawled out on his back, his head propped up on an old rolled up denim jacket.
He was twirling a daisy in one hand, plucking the petals off, one by one, mumbling something to himself. “I’m coming home, I’m not coming home, I’m coming…“, he said softly. He got to the last petal and knew: “I’m not coming home“
.He put the bare flower stem down and looked up at the big blue sky.
“I’ll love you forever but this is where I belong.”