Listening to rain and gusts of wind, wishing we were in my warm sunroom, peacefully rocking,

Schmoozing,

With cups of hot beverages in our hands.

We would talk about gardens, husbands and families,

Food, and politics,

Our speech more colloquial with each passing moment.

We’d probably sing, and I’d be teased about my autoharp story,

Maybe gather round the piano as we’d done in Virginia,

When we were young, but didn’t know it.

And lovely moments of sisterly silence,

The kind that comes from years of knowing,

Full from contentment and feeling like Home.