Enough Running

At what point do I say, 'Enough is quiet enough'?
At what point do I admit, 'I'm tired of running'?


Though filled with wanderlust, a gypsy I am not.
I long for a home on this earth that I can grow old in, a home that I never have to leave until I die of contrariness & old age.  Where the walls have yellowed around the many pictures and the wallpaper is older than my great grandkids. Where the scents of cedar, honeysuckle, lily-of-the-valley, rose water and baby powder fill every room. Where all the trinkets and what-nots I've collected throughout my life sit quietly and prettily throughout the house, and I'll take only the memories they brought me when I finally go. Where everything has it's place, even if only I understood the place everything has. Where outside the red rose bush of my Pappaw stands as tall as the plum trees and as wide as the spread of a fifty year old live oak. Where the gardenias bloom alongside the camelias and the 4 o'clocks threaten to take over the backyard. Where hummingbirds fight like rabid dogs as honey bees steal sips of syruppy coca-cola from a forgotten can on a railing. Where song birds return yearly to raise their young and sing sweet songs of joy simply because they can. Where one night, a long time from now, I will lay in the dark in my big old bed, and I will finally lay all of these burdens at the feet of God and say, 'I truly surrender ALL!'
And at the breaking of the dawn the voice of God will whisper through Pappaw's rose bush and say, "She's done enough running. She's finally come HOME!"