Paolo was lost and the one place he wanted to see more than anywhere else in the world was his home. He had been searching for his home so long that it was only in his dreams that it now came back to him.
There was the large chair that sat by the fire. It was an old chair, with holes in the upholstery where the stuffing peeked out. You could feel the springs if you didn’t sit right back into it. But Paola was small and he could squeeze himself back into it. He remembered falling asleep in that chair.
There was the old oak tree. It grew on the crest of the hill that rose out the back of his home. He would climb that tree, snuggling himself into the trunk and surveying the world around him. In the winter and spring he could see so far but in the summer and autumn the leaves would block the view, though he did not mind. He would watch the squirrels instead, as they scampered though the branches, playing or gathering the acorns.
There was the orchard that lay at the bottom of the hill. In spring, it would be white with blossom. And all summer long he would watch the fruit grow bigger, until finally things started to ripen. First the pears, sweet yet firm. Later the apples, three, four different varieties. His mouth watered as he remembered the tastes.
And finally there was the apiary where his father kept the bees. He remembered walking there, the sound of the buzzing. He remembered watching the bees come and go to the orchard and the fields beyond, returning to their hives with their pollen baskets laden with pollen, white, cream and yellow. And the taste of the honey, a small piece of heaven.
But he was far from heaven now and his bones were weary. Another day gone by, another night to rest on foreign soil, far away from all the places he wanted to be.
Posted in response to the daily prompt – The Wanderer