on the table

bread playdough

Yesterday, home was morning rituals of cuddles and stories. It was the texture of dough, the smell of yeast and the comfort of fresh bread. It was collections of natural treasure displayed in bowls, baskets and bottles. It was conversation with a friend while our babies fussed, ate and explored. It was being neighborly and sharing. It was weeds thrown on to the grass. Crusts thrown to the birds. Clothes fresh and full of sunlight thrown into a basket. Home was cups of tea, stitches knit, laughter and reading the last page of a book. 

And it felt good to be home.

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