By Marjorie H. Gore (Margie)
♡ ❦ ♡
Miss Juliet is what I call a darter.
She's a little lady hummingbird who has been rather elusive with me. With Warren, however, it's an entirely different story.
She'll come right up to him while he's standing on the porch and hover near his hand, those tiny wings going a mile a minute, as if to say, Hey, look! I'm back. You can relax now. Here I am.
She doesn't do that for me.
When I come outside, Juliet generally leaves.
I can almost hear that little bird thinking.
Oh, her again. I came all the way back here to see Warren. I didn't come to see her.
Apparently she doesn't approve of my cooking, either. I don't think the last batch of hummingbird food met her standards. And according to Miss Juliet, I don't know the first thing about running a respectable hummingbird restaurant.
She should take that glass thing down and wash it properly. She shouldn't leave my dinner hanging around in the Tennessee sunshine. She can't cook. She can't clean. What kind of place is she running here?
Well, Miss Juliet, let me give you a piece of my mind.
I did take that dumb glass thing down and wash it. I cleaned it out and put fresh food in it. And I cannot help it if Tennessee gets hot.
That's what Tennessee does.
But standing there on the porch one day, watching Juliet dart away from me again, something occurs to me.
Miss Juliet, you complain about my housekeeping. You complain about my cooking. You complain about practically everything I do.
So if you dislike this place so much, why do you keep coming back?
Because you do.
You always keep coming back.
Maybe this place is special to you.
In my imagination, Juliet looks at me. Then she looks at Warren. Then she looks back at me.
And perhaps that little hummingbird finally realizes something.
Maybe I've just been ungrateful.
I like it here.
That's why I keep coming back.
It feels like home.
And suddenly I understand Juliet a little better.
Home doesn't have to be perfect. Sometimes it's too hot. Sometimes it rains. Sometimes the food isn't exactly what we wanted. And sometimes the people we share it with can get on our nerves.
But home is the place we keep coming back to.
It's the place where something inside us says, This is where I belong.
And we all know there is no place like home.