Home.

Our flight home. Our waiting rental car. All went as they were supposed to. The traffic was heavy because of the long weekend but we managed to survive it all and arrive home. We came in and immediately felt embraced. We knew that this space was ours and that it was tailored to our taste.

As I was rolling through the door I remembered speaking to a man with a similar disability to the one I have. I remember him speaking of living in a nursing home because of a lack of access to an accessible living space and the supports that he needed to live freely. He was a few years younger than me. He had about him a resignation to his life that came from exhaustion from fighting for so many years, he wasn’t resigned from the start he told me but his dream of a home, a place of his own, had slowly slipped from him.

He said that he once hated where he lived, but that had led to a deep bitterness which took away all joy. “This,” he said, putting his hand on his chest, over his heart, “will always be free even if I never am.” I got teary at that point and he made an apology that I brushed away. I told him I needed to be reminded.

That people still yearn to be free.

That people still wait for a just life and a fair shot.

That people live in captivity jailed, not by bars, but by indifference.

I come into my home, from a lengthy trip on the road, of two weeks, and I feel a warmth in my gut at coming through the door.

Two weeks.

Just two weeks.

And he, for years and years, is still away from his home – the one he has in his mind.

We are so not done yet.

Not. Nearly. Done.

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