Home?

The cold autumn wind shakes the bare branches, shakes the fringes of my shawl, the folds of my overcoat. The smell of soup comes out of the window of the warm house, wanders the dusk air of the alley. The warm house. The warm house. Words break in the heavy lump in my throat. Washed curtains. The clean smell of ironing on cloth. The smell of stocks in the lap of the crystal vase. The shining laughter of lamplight on the flowers, on the crystal. The warm house without the paw of the wild bear. The cold wind shakes the bare, lonely branches...