Homeward Bound

Me Uncle Bill in the trenches, France 1917
Stepping onto the stained threadbare carpet the light is waning into late evening. You smell the old musty leaves of pulp languishing on the shelves, waiting for your fingers to reach out, break the dust layers, lightly brush the surfaces, your touch heated, in anticipation, slowly spreading open the pages of insight. You trace the lines, become the lives, breathe the language of the skin and you surrender. You're home for awhile.