Wet dog, wood chip mulch, and the ghosts of cigarettes past exhaled by people I love, as sweet Jon hefts my luggage into the sputtering Nissan so I can melt into the passenger seat.
The warm damp of straw wafting from the coop near the driveway along with a few soft quacks and coos as we disturb the sleeping birds with our return.
The chorus of dead trees that built this farmhouse, sweet and dry and earthy, layering welcome with the comforting echos of other homes I have known.
The funk of my loved ones of multiple species as we collapse into an exhausted pile on the couch.
Even the mercifully mild astringency of the cat box, overpowered as it is by the chalky clay of dollar store litter, letting me know a dear friend has been good to the animals while I’m gone.
The next day in sunlight, something I know to be sweetgrass though im not sure how I know, a faint sense memory from childhood, as wind and sun wrap thick around me by the water.
Wet sand and decaying maple leaves grinding under my boots.
Gravelly mineral dust of oyster shell as the lowest hen in the pecking order winds around my legs for protection, almost knocking me over as I scoop out the morning feed.
And bed. Laundry soap and cotton, the pages of a beautiful book and a loved one’s hair. Thank God.
Perfect.
You captured it! The comforts of home bring joy. I enjoy your writing!