The scream of a vixen woke me,disoriented, from exhausted sleep; moonshine through slatted blinds casting a cool glow upon familiar quilt on unfamiliar bed. A door left ajar carrying the sound of my son's soft breathing from the darkened room beyond.
Ten days and three bedrooms on from the fire that began this nomadic existence, still we live out of suitcases; the kindness and generosity of friends circling round us like a protective shield.
'That which does not kill you makes you stronger;' but for all that, I miss the simple things; clothes uncreased by suitcase folds, my own bed with warm cat curled into my side...
.....yet still we wait; longing to go home once more.