Homesick

Waking, she is startled to find she has dreamed of home, though she hadn’t thought of it as that for years. But now she remembers the eager light, the way it streaked the ceiling like tabby stripes on the cat who’d rubbed her legs, summer mornings, head bowed over bacon and eggs. And then, to walk barefoot in grass, wet blades sticking to the curves of her feet, to listen to wind in the cedar row, sad whistle as real as tragedy. All day now she carries this place like a secret no one could guess, like licorice she has hidden in a drawer, sweet but infused with bitter tang.