2.1: Home is where the heart is.

“Where are you off to, son?”

August lowered the newspaper he was reading and focused his gaze on the spot where the voice had come from. A husky old man with a white beard and rosy cheeks was waiting patiently in the train seat across from August. He wore a soft smile and his eyes were bright and sincere.

August folded the paper in his lap and cleared his throat. “Home. I got my leave yesterday.”

The old man nodded and looked out the window.

August looked at the old man warily. He seemed to lose some of the brightness that first welcomed him.

“What’s that like?” The old man did not look at August when as he asked this. His eyes flickered back and forth as he watched the passing landscape. The dim light of dusk was casting dancing shadows on his face as the train rolled along.

August furrowed his eyebrows unsure about the question. “The war? Well, it’s rough all around, but it seems to be-”

“No. Home. What is your home like?” He turned to look at August now. He did not mean to ask his question unkindly, but his tone was sharp. Almost desperate.

“Oh. I’m sorry.” August mumbled. He cleared his throat again. He gazed longingly out at the blurry sunset and spoke softly. “My home is beautiful. At this time of spring the orchard tree’s are just starting to blossom and the morning dew is heavy on the grass when dad gets up to feed the pigs. Ma will be baking in the kitchen. Clara will be skipping home from a play date at her friends house with a basket of wild flowers swinging from her arm. I’ll walk up the dirt road and the dogs will bark and sprint towards me.” August paused to look at the old man who seemed to be listening intently. “It’s a simple place, really. About what you would expect of a farmers home. But it’s perfect.”

The old man gave August a warm smile and his face returned to the kind man that first greeted him. “How long have you been away, son?”

“Nearly a year.” August replied solemnly. “Where might your home be?”

“Agh, very far away indeed. No train could take me to it. But I’ll make it there one day.”

August didn’t know what to make of this response. Surely an old man like himself would not be able to travel much longer. Why not do it while he still had his mobility? But August said nothing about it. Instead he responded “Well, good luck to you.”

Moments later the train began to screech and slow down. “Well, young man. This is where I get off.”  Both men stood up and shook hands. “Enjoy your time at home. Cherish it.” August helped him grab his shabby suitcase from an overhead compartment. The old man walked slowly to the exit supporting himself with a worn wooden cane. Right before getting off he turned to give August a weak wave and then vanished.

“Thank you.” said August quietly.

The next day August arrived at his stop. He hopped on a wagon that took him most of the way home. When he got at close as he could he got off to walk the rest of the way. His family didn’t know he was coming back and he longed to see the excitement on their faces when they saw him.

As he approached the long driveway, thick trees lined the border of the road and were covered in full buds ready to pop. The air was fresh and misty but a peculiar smell also filled his nose. As he continued down the road he could see in the distance a faint glow and flash of red lights. That peculiar smell. He quickened his pace and squinted to see a bit better. There were trucks. That smell. Smoke.

August dropped his bags and broke into a full sprint down the dirt road towards his house. He could see the ruin now. The fire was out but and the damage was done. Almost nothing left to salvage. He looked around panicked but finally saw, to his relief and intense emotion, his family huddled in blankets beside an emergency vehicle. He ran towards them and embraced them tightly, bursting with sobs.

His mother smiled and cried and kissed August, clearly overjoyed at the sight of her son but still devastated by the wreckage .

“Is everyone alright? I was so worried!” August spoke frantically.

“Yes we are all fine. But oh August, our home is gone! I am so sorry.” She held him tightly and cried.

“No, Ma. Our home is right here. We’re all alright.”

Society calls home a place. Does “place” mean a location? I don’t have a secret or original view on my sense of home because I think many people share the same view. For me, I know that if my house were to be destroyed, sure I might be pretty devastated, but in the greater perspective all I really care about is my family. My whole life I have stood behind the concept that the “people make the place” and that view will never change. My idea of home inspired this story, hope you liked it!

Sarah C.