I kept blaming my absent Muse. How dare she abandon me when I’m in a peaceful setting. A home splashed with creativity on every wall, and workmanship on display even when opening a door.

I’ve been in three homes since crossing back and forth over the Mississippi river. I came to be present with my brother in his local hospital. Hospitals are not home. Though they try to mask their utility with local art and esthetic waiting rooms, a medical hostel never passes for home.

Being a nurse himself, he knew all too well of hospital accoutrements, and being on the other side of the needle. It was his second major go round in a bed on wheels. The odd fact the culprit of this stay was jostled by a filter gone bad from a fall twenty years ago. He is doing much better.

To enter someone’s home is a grace. Each one on this trip was unique. I’ve been to my brother’s before and the history through pictures fascinated me again. I walked slowly around like I was at a gallery. Little sections of walls dedicated to different times before, during, and after Pete’s blended family beginning.

Then, upon entering my sister Barb’s home, I was infused with color through Quilts of all functions. Table runners, a quilt ladder rack, and artwork of one of her children. Photos, taken by another child, some in black and white, still colored my imagination. Right down to the art of cooking and gathering around a table was a delight.

Then I had a quick layover at my nephew’s house; The home described in the first paragraph. After touring the remodeling of their 1920’s era house, and the art hung throughout we sat for a warm conversation and a cold beer.

After heading out the door of each home I felt like my relatives sent a little piece of themselves with me. More than a little peace settled in me.