Driving Home

I grew up on the other side of this mountain. I raised my children on this side. It’s punctuated my horizons for years – like an exclamation mark; it says, ‘You’re Home!’

And when I drive home on an evening like last night, when every part of the mountain is revealed, her shoulders quite bare and she’s so clear that I can trace every line and wrinkle and crease of her face, she looks bigger and surer. Her ice cap is snow-white and her foothills lilac against the blue of sky. And the nearer I get to home, the taller she looms, as if rising up protectively to draw me in.

And then in the setting sun she blushes pink.

By the time I swing into the farm, she’s like a ghost and I count 8 owls waiting on fence posts for the mice to turn out, so that they can begin to hunt and a jackel runs across the road and the pewter of his back gleams beneath a softly rising moon which crowns the mountain silver.

And I am home.

2 Responses to “Driving Home”

  1. Miss Footloose Says:

    I love this little tale of finding joy in experiencing something that is “ordinary” and “routine” that might otherwise go unnoticed. I also love driving home through the countryside, through the vineyards of southern France, and see my ancient village and it’s church steeple come into view. One thing I always knew: where ever I end up, I don’t want soul crushing traffic be part of my daily life. (PS: I was married in Nyeri, a long time ago now, and loved driving through the Kenyan countryside.)

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