The Gift of Coming Home

I am in my own bed.

Sometimes I forget what a beautiful thing that is.

On my bedside table are the flowers picked by my children and my "adopted daughter" (girl who I love because she is lovable... a neighbor's child who makes me laugh and who keeps my own children company). I could see from the bouquet's constitution that there had been a visit to my yard and two other neighbors' yards (one neighbor is in France, and I sincerely hope she will not mind the filching of a rose for my sake).

The rose especially fills my senses.

This is what I missed in the hospital. There, the smells were sickly, like the lingering scent of a room cleaned up after death. It clung to the sheets, so I tried to breathe through my mouth instead. I am overly sensitive to fragrances, so the smells were a special kind of unhappiness for me.

I am okay it seems. My legs hurt impossibly and I can't walk very well— a result of inflammation we never got answers about. My fever is gone and I can almost think again.

I realize I will probably never catch up with all the kind people who have left (and may still leave) comments on my blogs over the past week and a half. It's too much. I will have to let it go and hope that people understand.

While I was in a rented bed, I forgot to be afraid. I feel like that was some kind of mistake on my part. Instead, I lay listening to French music and dreaming of dancers. I talked on the phone to a few friends who made me laugh.

And I counted the hours until I could come home.


Bouquet near Hospital Bracelet photo, by L.L. Barkat.