Leave the dishes.
Let the celery rot in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator
and an earthen scum harden on the kitchen floor.
Leave the black crumbs in the bottom of the toaster.
Throw the cracked bowl out and don’t patch the cup.
Don’t patch anything. Don’t mend. Buy safety pins.
Don’t even sew on a button.
During these short summer months, some are lucky enough to return to the vacation spots of our youth. However, for most, those old summer haunts are long gone, vanished into the changing landscape. But, I’ve happily discovered, one can spy the shadow of our faded past, even in a new locale. For really, what does returning home mean in our increasing nomadic culture?Might not home be anyplace where the screen door bangs in an accustomed way and none of the dinner dishes in the cupboard match or where you spend the day wandering to and from the watering hole barefoot and laughing hours away with cousins? In these places, nostalgia for the carefree days blooms all summer long. One whiff of a poppy or hydrangea as you stroll along sandy roads and you are reminded, yes, indeed, you realize why place is secondary to the familial faces knowingly smiling back… most assuredly you discover it is the people who make the summer place feel like home.