it.”
Obla thought I was going to the Home! She expected me to go with her! She didn’t know I’d decided to stay. That we were going to stay. I met Salla’s eyes. Our communication was quick and complete before the small voice said, “Salla, my sweet sister! I trust that’s sufficiently ‘essy’!” And I heard Obla’s laugh for the first time.
So, somewhere way back there, there is a tiny cave with a dime glowing in it, keeping in trust a preciousness between Salla and me-a candle in the window of memory. Somewhere way back there are the sights and sounds, the. smells and tastes, the homeness of Earth. For a while I have turned my back on the Promised Land. For our Jordan was crossed those long years ago. My trouble was that I thought that wherever I looked, just because I did the looking, was the goal ahead. But all the time, the Crossing, shimmering in the light of memory, had been something completed, not something yet to reach. My yearning for the Home must have been a little of the old hunger for the fleshpots that haunts any pioneering effort.
And Salla … Well, sometimes when I’m not looking she looks at me and then at Obla. And sometimes when she isn’t looking I look at her and then at Obla. Obla has no eyes, but sometimes when we aren’t looking she looks at me and then at Salla.
Things will happen to all three of us before Earth swells again in the portholes. but whatever happens Earth will swell in the portholes again-at least for me. And then I will truly be coming Home.
Zoltan 1.0
