Winter twilight crisp and clear,
red rush-hour tail lights
ease north, disappear over a hill.
Bright white headlights
stream slowly south in the oncoming lane.
Above the river of traffic,
bare tree branches lace across
a quickly darkening evening sky.
Left and right, houses come to life
as windows wink on
in squares and rectangles of gold.
The car in front of me slows,
signals,
turns left into a driveway,
and something inside me warms.
I feel somehow lighter.
Somebody’s home, I think.
Somebody’s home.
I’m not far from my own house,
my own driveway,
just three more left turns
and then that deep hum of a breath,
the hug of home-ness.
I know that “home” is not warm joy
for everyone,
nor has it always been for me,
but it is now,
and for that, I am grateful.
A few days ago,
a photo popped up on my phone,
a random memory:
me and my youngest sister
standing side by side
under a tent in West Texas
in front of our dad’s flower-covered coffin.
After making his way through the maze
of a full and wondrous life
with all its curves and corners,
switchbacks and straight stretches,
uphill slogs and downhill slides,
Daddy had slowed, turned left in front of me,
and made his way home.
Someday when I cross through the twilight,
the divine veiled divide,
into the mystery of beyond,
I hope that those who see my handful of ashes
will feel somehow lighter.
I hope their heart will warm.
I hope they will smile and think,
somebody’s home.
-kh-

Nurture peace, cultivate kindness, and carry the calm.

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Text and photos © Karyn Henley 2026. All rights reserved.