Being Home

He stepped from within, glowing with the confidence of one who has stepped many times before. Sure enough, as the sun does rise and fall, so did his feet. And with gentle thuds against the dew-moistened earth, Erastus strode his way down the steep of a hill.

'But not just any hill' he might say, 'my hill!' For atop the grassy mound his humble home did sit.

Not long did he walk, but returned to find his door agape, unlike the way in which he left it. Having not been a particularly windy morning, he approached the weathered wooden arc with caution.

'Welcome, welcome!' a happy voice did bid him enter. And enter he did, for after all, it was his home. She smiled in earnest and poured a second cup of tea.

Upon his cushioned throne, there sat a damsel neither young nor old, wrapped in the rags of a rainbow, once vibrant, but faded by the years. Her teeth were yellow-beige and her hair and nails unkempt and clot with spots of dirt. The woman adjusted her feet beneath her and held the cup her full arms length before him.

'You offer me that which is mine' he told her, but accepted the steaming glass none the less. She may be a thief, he thought, but she was a generous one at the least. They slipped in silence for a peaceful moment. Then it passed and naught had still been said, so he inquired (a trifle annoyed) 'what are you doing in my home?'

For a breath she seemed frightened, like a cat whose milk's been snatched away. Then she frowned. 'Well, I've been living here for nearly... eight minutes! And I'm quite settled in' she told him. 'Oh! But you are more than welcome to stay as long as you like.' she added. 'Forever even! It's all the same to me.' She got up and turned to the kitchen 'Would you like a muffin? They're not so fresh, but still they have not lost all their flavor.'

Now Erastus was a kind man, not one prone to forcing ladies from his home. Especially not ones so hospitable as she. Often in the past he had remarked 'what's mine is yours, so make yourself at home!' And now that someone actually had he could not go back on his word. 'Someone may take my home,' he said, for she was in the kitchen beyond the distance whispers traveled, 'but my honest virtue's mine alone.'

He resolved to leave and seek life anew, checked for stones, and was out the door.

She turn out from the hall bearing a tray of dry berried muffins. Upon the chair, where had been the man, lay a note. It simply read:

'Thank you for the lovely tea.
But I am afraid,
a muffin life is not for me.'

'What an awful poem' she thought. And yet, she was impressed for the effort.