The sun rises quietly, Saturday morning but it doesn't count the hours, only does what it is meant to do. A hot air balloon rises above the hillsides, quietly defying gravity like a deep breath to greet it. The tops of the mountains turn golden with autumn, a million quaking aspens leading the way into a new season. Do not be afraid, they whisper in the wind, here is light still. I get out of bed reluctantly, put the sheets in the washing machine, look at all I own and wonder how to fit it into such a small container. It is good practice for how to furnish one's heart.
There is always room.
The hot air balloon sinks, lowering itself gently back into the valley. There's a way to return home that feels
just
like love.
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