cuimhinliom: (pleased)
[personal profile] cuimhinliom
The one in my dreams or the one I day dream of? I remember palaces filled with beautiful art, where music seemed to be conjured out of the air, for you never saw musicians, but it followed you everywhere. Colors and sunlight. A home where only the best of everything was laid out and laughter rang in the halls, mixing with the music. It smelled of warm bread and honey and spices and sweetness. It was exotic, to think of it now, but then it was just...home.

It's still there, teasing at me with it's perfection. But the dreams have shifted as I've found myself awake.

It's not all that neat. There tend to be toys everywhere and magazines about cars and leather pants draped over a chair no matter how many times I point out they should go in the closet. The toilet seat's rarely down and I tripped over a fire engine the other day and bruised my shin on a table covered with papers that needed to be graded.

But there's still laughter, and there are jokes, and there's guitar music and sometimes drums. There's room to dance and there's a stable outside and an indoor ring to guide the children around. There's a bed big enough for three, that ends up with four in it at some of the less opportune times, but it makes a wonderful trampoline and one of the best hiding places is to slide under it all the way to the middle because you can roll out quicker to the other side before they can run around and make it home safe more often than not.

There's love. There's safety. There's hope. There's playdough in the carpet.

It's a good home.
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Keelia Gallagher / Étáin

January 2010

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