It was only a dream...

In spite of the heat lamps buzzing overhead in the small enclosure, it was a bone-rattling kind of cold as I stood waiting for the train this morning. Huddled in a group of strangers who silently agreed that it was too bitter to converse, we stared longingly west for the approach of the engine. Hands in gloves in pockets, toes curled inside too-thin socks, scarf and hat parting only from chin to eyebrows, I thought of the roses.

The day had been perfectly warm, filled with music and lemonade-carrying children. Velvety grass, crystal blue skies, easy laughter....and the roses. Strolling contentedly through the garden, I remember stopping in my tracks to stare in delight at their beauty - the trellis-arched walkway covered in thousands of delicate buds and blooms. Petals lined the sidewalk, and the fragile scent of warm, pink and white headiness filled the air.

Of all the things to remember from that day, I wish most to hold on to that moment, when peace, contentment, and a garden of breathtaking roses filled my mind.

Home is not a place, after all. It's a feeling that comes from being completely comfortable where you are.