Monday, September 29, 2008


29 September 2008, 10:55 PM

He asked me to make him pancakes,
and somewhere inside I sighed a deep,
exhausted sigh- I had wanted to sleep
until the last possible moment tomorrow.
Getting up in time for breakfast robs me
of fifteen minutes of comfort and home
in my warm bed that I won't ever get back.

But outwardly I smiled, said yes,
and my affirmation opened a door into
the broken heart of a little boy,
made a way in the wilderness for my son
to say the words I knew would come
the day his father left, the day I knew
we would never come back,
and we all were surely better for it.

My son told me a story with his eyes
and tears which, for now, did not fall
because while other places seem less so,
this house will always be home.
I make him pancakes, and by this simple
(if sometimes grudging) act, he knows.
He knows my love for him.

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George MacDonald

"Home is ever so far away in the palm of your hand, and how to get there it is of no use to tell you. But you will get there; you must get there; you have to get there. Everybody who is not at home, has to go home."

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