This morning I awoke to the sounds of some unidentifiable piano concerto on VPR's classical station. (Who am I kidding. They are all unidentifiable.)
It was not unpleasant. Sometimes piano concertos are.
No. It was beautiful.
The soft plinking notes pressed the residual overnight gloom right out of the room and I realized two things: I was alone-- Isla had had a good, wander-free night. And, I felt completely at ease, a' l'aise, in my skin and in my home. My bed was soft in all the right places and firm in all the right places and warm all over. And my heart was soft in all the right places, and firm in all the right places and warm all over.
I raised my thick head off the pillow to glance at the clock. 6:10. I pushed my head back into the pliant warmth and dozed some more.
I got up to pee and stood in front of the double windows that face out to the barn. It was just before sunrise when the whole world, even the air, is soft-edged. Submissive.
The mountains, the trees, the air, the sky, the barn, the sleeping horses. It all looked, and felt, so welcome and familiar. So permanent. Unmovable.
I had a flashback of looking out our back window in France in the dark winter mornings. I felt nothing of that loneliness, that desolate sense of homesickness, I often felt upon waking up there.
"That's because this is my home," I heard my voice cutting into my reverie to say, as I continued on towards the bathroom, "and France was not."
I had spoken out loud. Or someone had.