Rain falls steadily in the darkness. Indoors, all is cozy with fresh flowers picked between rain showers and candles lit in the living room. No matter how long or short a time I'm away, coming home is always a delight. I walk in my front door, drop my bags, and take a deep breath. Home.
I enjoy the novels written by Rosamunde Pilcher, and own most of them. Homes feature large in her writing with descriptions of rooms that wrap themselves around people in cozy warmth. Here in my own home there is a faint smell of lemon oil that I use when I dust the furniture. Orange peels drying in the kitchen add another layer of scent. Cushions are plumped and waiting to be tucked behind my back when I read or stitch. A blanket or two is ready in a basket for a bit of extra coziness. Little things like these all contribute to the sense of being at home.
We drove home from our short getaway on rain-washed roads where autumn leaves lay shining with wet or flew in torrents from trees tossed by the wind. Unpacking, cooking a simple supper for the two of us, and now a quiet evening in our own home. The weekend promises to be a wet one, good for savoring the blessings of home.
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