“I hear your footsteps down the hall, you’re home again and safe. The burdens of the day are lifted, and all the night noises… are music to my ears.”

A painting with that poem hung for years at my grandparents’ house. I remember the first time I stopped to read the words, probably when I was about nine years old. The lines had a rhythm I liked. They tripped over my tongue almost like music. Then I absorbed the meaning.

As I child I felt safer, more secure, when both my parents were at home. And even more so when a house full of family descended on my grandparents’ home. I love a full house. It’s where I feel at home again. And safe.

Funny how that poem popped into my head just now. The memory carries the bittersweet taste nostalgia often has. But he is coming home to me. And making all the night noises music to my ears.

6 thoughts on “Footsteps

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