I did not know it then, but those would become some of my favorite days: spring in a southern town, reading and writing in the light of the world where war once raged but lives now in a quiet peace; where the end of a river runs over shallow rock shelves before spreading and stilling into tidal sea.
Red wine on a table, shared with friends or alone—book and paper as my company—no rush, no hurry; a quietness for contemplation, writing to commune with ones I missed and looked forward to seeing again, writing to hold and build on bonds of family and friendships, special to me, through time and distance away.
I think of those days again as I sit on a porch listening to wind through unbudded trees and the solitary songs of birds, returned, seeking love and shared companionship in a beginning new life season.
I contemplate. I write. It is a beautiful day and I find peace discerning—though time, place, and life condition move—there are things that never change.