Blessed be our homes. No matter how un-fancy. In big towns. Or small, like mine. Or no town at all. In a field, say. Or a tent in the rubble. Be they ever so humble, there’s no place like. May we remember that. May we count our blessings. May we make room. May we share.
A quiet corner at sunset on a very quiet holiday. The night before fireworks. We eat our dinner at Luma (as in Peta-luma…). People stop by to say Hi. To pay respects. There are handshakes and thanks and a joke or two. It’s dusk. Across the banged-up strip of patched concrete we call a street (it once was a railroad track), lights go on along the warehouses. For just a few moments, they’ll be bright as the sky. Then they’ll be brighter. For a whole night long, brighter. Then gone. Blasted by morning.
Here’s to what’s beautiful in your neck of the woods.
© i.e. ideas expressed 2011