Going Home

I remember Mom calling me home from the friend’s house down the road where I used to play as a child.  She would stand in the driveway, clap her hands and  spread them wide open for me to run into. And I did. I ran all the way down the street into her arms.

I also remember the day my brother called me in Australia, to tell me he was finally marrying a woman about whom he could truly say he worshipped the ground she walked on and could I come home for the wedding.

For this man, the call came as an uncontrollable shaking. Unrecognisable as a call.

Eventually though he was reminded so much, he was finally asked what he wanted. “Peace. Composure. To be a nice guy.”

Would this be enough to get home?

One day he suddenly looked up, wide-eyed with wonder and asked “What is that vibrating light on the ceiling?”

She wanted to say “home!” But how could she – or anyone – know. Only he could see it.

Another day he looked at the doorway of the hospital room and wistfully muttered, “I’m going to miss this ol’ lake.”

So it was not surprising that soon after, he followed the call. They at least liked to think of it all as a call home, and the whole process a slow run into what they hope is a parent’s open arms. Or maybe to the lake. Where-ever he eventually went to roost, they hoped it is a home of peace and composure. Because he was always a nice guy.


Jasmin Webb