It comes in waves. Wafting up at a frightening pace. Often pushed to the back recesses of memory, but never ever forgotten. Like a smell or a touch, once duplicated, always bringing back the same emotion.
Back straight, chest puffed out; ideas of what was meant to be cascading through your mind. A wry, yet uncomplicated smile crosses your face. Thoughts of elsewhere and elsewhen tromping through your brain like circus elephants on parade. Trumpets sound, but only to you. The true son, or so you think, is ready.
Ready, and willing to follow the call home.
And that is what it is, a call.
An unheard whistle like dogs can hear, grinding into the back of your brain, burrowing into the soft tissue, accumulating until you are overwhelmed by a need to be somehwere else. Somewhere particular and known, populated by those that you know so well. So well, that you dream of them when you least expect it.
This is the call home.
