A narrow country road, barely paved. A green field of grass that could be a lawn, if not for the fact the only “house” is more of a shack, old and decaying. A large tree, obviously very old, spreads over a large part of the field near the road. The mailbox is rusted and tilting on its post which appears to be rotting out from under it. Only a few letters of the name remain legible. “T..E..W” The mailbox’s door hangs open, the metal flag on the side bent outward.
I stand in the road, taking this all in, with a strange mixture of familiarity, home, and complete loss of where I am. I’m not sure how I got here or what my name is, yet I am calm while recognizing that perhaps I shouldn’t be calm at all. Perhaps I’m being distracted by this place, which I remember having visited before. But not the condition of the things I am seeing – my last visit must have been a long time ago. Yes, it smells and feels right. Vaguely I ask ‘Are my wanderings over?’. I feel so tired, yet restless, and something about this place feels restful and draws me in.