A Tintern Abbey

I find my fingers wrapped around a handle and I pull.
The loud, precarious roll of old metal and weathered wood announces my arrival like the slow voice of thunder announces a distant storm. The heavy movement of that sliding door reminds me that I know this place; I've always known this place; this places knows me.

I step one foot into the back porch and realize it must've been dark outside. The light invites me in and I realize I must've been cold before, too. This isn't warmth that can go unnoticed. This isn't light that doesn't sting at first.

In this light, eyes clear as a roe are piercing as I am seen entirely, first by the other, then by myself. Memory floods the place like a basket of eggs carried carefully and then dropped. I am known by this place. Something draws me to retreat, but that blessed warmth persists in the next room.

Into the kitchen, faces familiar and foreign greet me around the table. I finally adjust to the harsh light and eyes meet all around. We sit down, and we are leveled as we share in the same bread. Soon we are filled, yet light and cheerful as fawns.

I step out the door, open my eyes, and the light and warmth remain mine in the cold night. Miles and years away, I carry with me this place of light and warmth. And for miles and years to come, this place carries me.