On Love

Here, I made you breakfast to bring on the train, she says, handing over a bag of food in the dark morning though she should be sleeping. Another friendly face on the tram, as dawn slowly creeps a golden light over the city I once called my home, and the misty rolling landscape outside the train window overwhelms me for hours. 

I came to them in tatters this week, broken by sorrow and bloodshot eyes, without so much as an ounce of social graces in my repertoire, and I found them with nothing but open arms in return. They prepared dinner, made me coffee and poured my wine. They listened for hours to my same circles and held me patiently as I gathered courage for another day. 

If I could sit there, hold her hand, and tell her I would make it all better for her, it was only because they put me back together when I fell apart. If I did anything right this week, it was all their doing. 

If I did anything right this life, it was loving these people, and letting them love me in return. Do not be mistaken:

Love

is what is home.