The Way Home

All his life, he painted departure. Empty houses. Departing boats. Things that do not return. In every picture, someone was leaving. When he painted an empty house, he was the owner of that house. When he painted a departing boat, he was aboard that boat. But in the end, he called the scattered things back together. He raised the house, tethered the horse, planted the tree, and set the crow down. One by one, he called back the things he had sent away all his life. And into their midst, he let one person return. With weary steps, with a bent back, and yet toward home. The hand that had painted departure painted return. The one who had sent others off became the one who receives them. From departure to return, between them, there was a life.