A humming bird visited me on my return home from Maine, attracted by the flowers on my patio. He/she comes by nightly now around dusk. Two nights ago, I sat poised with my camera to try and capture my new friend hovering--I failed.

Sitting still waiting for his/her return, I thought about how good it was to be back in my home after having spent a glorious half summer with family and friends at the Maine cottage. I leave there reluctantly, but it doesn't take me long to realize how incredibly fortunate I am to have a home I love.

I call it my nest. 

The first chapter in Above and Beyond Wellfleet is dark--it was the hardest chapter to write, because the world I recounted in that chapter was filled with foreboding. I felt terrorized (not too strong a word) about not being able to focus on my future positively. I was stuck --mentally and physically.

My family and I moved quite a bit when I was growing up, and no matter how insecure I felt moving to a new place, I always felt secure in the homes my parents created. As an adult after marriage, I moved into new homes five times. I remember each lovingly.

So I was shocked to discover that the home on Cape Cod that my husband and I cherished turned into a haunted house for me after he died. I write that I tried desperately to love it again, but each day we quarreled.  I moved furniture, I bought two cords of wood for the fireplaces, always having been comforted by the warmth and light of fire. Nothing worked. The luster of the beautiful house was irrevocably tarnished.

I sold the house--and I did it abruptly and in the opinion of most way too soon after having experienced a dramatic loss. But I could not feather this nest--this nest that held my husband's and my dreams--which without him had turned to nightmares.

These are strong words I write. They reflect the value I place on my home. When my husband was going through a year of Interferon treatment for his Melanoma, we sold our family home in Rochester  (the Cape house was our retirement home) and moved into a one bedroom apartment. The apartment was different from what we had been used to. One night, we had friends over for dinner--they were not only worried about my husband's health, they wondered how we were adjusting to our new and very different living environment. I overheard Larry say to them when they asked how we were, "Connie has made us a home here."

A home. A place where it doesn't matter the elegance or fancy address. It matters that you wake up and go to bed peaceful in the knowledge that you are safe and secure. A place where hummingbirds might stop by for a nightly visit.