Restored

And here I am again

outside my own doorstep.

Head hung in something

a little quieter than shame,

a little clearer than the realisation I can begin again.

For this time things are softer,

the lights inside beckoning

not bellowing;

the corridor levelled out,

like butter swiped up to be spread.

I absorb the familiar pull of this home

tucked away unto itself,

discreet and untimely in its somewhat

abrupt reappearance

but warm

and calling,

gently, gently.

I step in through this window of air,

of time

remembered;

and nothing is changed.

All as I left it.

Unaugmented.

Untainted.

The story still yet to be told in pen.

To begin again for some is to run,

ahead and up.

To holler and jump.

But for me,

it has been to go back.

Back, to find myself where I left off.

To walk onto the oaken threshold,

creak open the bay windows,

and breathe in the age-old scent

of new day.