"home is where you feel safest," trent read to emily.
"i feel safest with you. you are home," emily answered trent.
now it's my turn to answer:
my turn to tribute the man who is
i remember patchy green grass lit sideways by sun setting on the East.
back then, home was still sun-bright West
and i wasn't there.
but in that New Brunswick softball field,
some clown hung between heaven and earth, horizontal
like his life depended on catching that ball.
secretly, i was impressed.
then it was my turn to clown around outfield,
for i knew nothing of the sport
and nobody had fulfilled their vows to teach me.
i felt uncomfortable,
far from home,
and now, i was without a glove.
some clown with grass stains on his shirt
handed me his glove -- worn in all the right places.
secretly, i was very impressed.
softball clown became after-class chit-chat clown,
dining hall newspaper-lingering clown,
chapel side-sitting clown.
and i was his fool,
and i found home.
today, his grass-stained shirt has baby boogers on it, too.
that glove sits in the basement --
it will be handed to a new generation of softball-divers.
today, the man who is my home
hangs between heaven and earth, striving
like his life depended on fulfilling his vows.
he loves me with every little self-sacrificing decision,
until his mind is blown
and his back is busted
and his eyes droop shut.
then, his hands -- worn in all the right places --
scoop me up
and we fall asleep
and the sun sets
on our home away from Home.