These cool crisp mornings take me back to memory a child when I was home with all my family including those we have lost before life happened. You wouldn't hear her get out of bed as the day began when the sunlight crept through the windows of our old four room house. As she quietly began her day making breakfast, home-made biscuits from scratch was the first thing she made; followed by some kind of hog meat cut fresh the night before from the smokehouse by her or daddy. It was the humdrum kind of sound from a fork whisking the farm fresh eggs that woke you to a daze, like it's a dream you don't want to wake up from. The warmth of the blankets compelled you to roll over and stay in bed. It wasn't until the house lingered with the smell of fresh baked biscuits and the aroma of gravy and meat frying that in retro sense pulled you from bed to walk into the kitchen where so often you hear "breakfast is on the table". What my heart aches for I can never have. Memories I'll hold so dear as I walk into the kitchen of the old homestead to see Momma in her red shirt and blue skirt she many times wore; turning over the biscuits so the won't "sweat" as she would say. There she stood at the old rustic kitchen table daddy made with hand made sitting chairs so lovely giving of herself and time to take care of her children. It is in that moment of memory I am Home Again.
