You don’t have to imagine where home is any more than you have to imagine the dirt under your feet. You’re standing on cement or asphalt? Jump up and down a couple of times. You’d prefer more solid evidence? Well, in April, the crew of Artemis II on its voyage from earth to the dark side of the moon, sent us photographs of a blue sphere spinning in the immeasurable darknes of space: photos of Earth, their home, your home too, my home, our home.
Where in the photos is the border between Russia and Ukraine? Between Israel and Gaza? Can you see Washington, Tel Aviv or Moscow? How about a forest or a freeway, or a house? Even less visible is a white-haired man in a little town near the edge of an ocean. He’s in the last chapter of a long life and for months he has been drawing the flower a friend gave to him in December. At that time, the gift was a brown sphere with two green sprouts emerging from its crown. But it grew, and to his surprise, he grew as well.
At first the flower was an “it.” Then in March it became a “she.” In April she became a “you.” And the artist who draws the “you” is not the same as the one who saw only an “it.”
Most flowers bloom in Spring and wither in Autumn. You opened your arms during the dark days of Winter. You never seemed as lovely and full of grace as when you began to wilt. Now your green has turned to brown and your petals look like shrivled butterflies. Sleep well in Summer and bloom again when rain and snow return. I’ll be here at home and welcome you with brushes and colors.