"CALLING ME HOME"

CALLING ME HOME

In the spring of my life inside the hay loft of the old barn,
I listened to rain on its’ old tin roof.
I watched the newborn animals and marveled at their first few steps.
I laughed as my puppy chased its tail and sister’s kitten played with momma’s yarn.
Outside I ran like the wind as I chased butterflies.
I climbed trees and surveyed my childhood world, fields of new mown hay, and then lovingly picked field flowers for Gramma and waited, listening for her to call from the back door, it’s “Time to come on home.”

In the Summer of my life, it was time to be a man.
The barn with the tin roof was still standing, my children now took their turns growing up as I had.
The puppy had become an old friend, lying on the back porch watching her children chase their tails.
To the Grandmother who was a littler grayer, a little older, came field flowers from children who surveyed their worlds.
Fields of new mown hay and waited for the call from the back door, it’s “Time to come on home.”

It was all too soon, the Fall of my life and just as leaves fall from their branches and dwindle to a precious few, so have my years.
Gramma was gone and we had taken her place, watching our grandchildren play in fields of new mown hay and we listened as they laughed at new puppies chasing their tails, running circles around each other.
These grandchildren also picked wild flowers and waited for Gramma’s call from the back door, it’s “Time to come on home.”

Now in the Winter of my life, there is just me.
I sit alone an old man and reminisce about love that was made in open fields beneath star studded skies.
The sounds of her laughter haunt me, the child, the wife, the grandmother who’s years have ended.
I face the sadness of being alone.
The old friend on the back porch, who has replaced so many others like me, is worn and gray, no longer filled with the sparkle of that once playful pup.
How alone we are.
There’s no one there with field flowers and no one “Calling me home.”

Then something catches my eye and I strain to watch a familiar figure as it comes across the field, fields no longer cared for.
We are tired, but together my old friend and I manage to get our tired old bodies off the porch and walk to greet the child, the wife, the grandmother, who’s
“Come to call me home.”