The wooden gate creaked only slightly when he opened it.
The smell of the blossoms was both intoxicating and relaxing.
For the first time in a long time he felt safe.
With every step toward the door, the shadows of his past fell further behind him.
The singular lamppost, glowing a soft yellow in the moonlight welcomed him home.
His old bones, stiff at first, felt younger with every breath.
His pack, though full, was light upon his shoulder.
The road, cracked and worn, lay before him out to the horizon.
The weapon, his weapon, rested upon his hip.
The dark, toned, chrome guard of the hilt caught the sunlight.
He was young again, adventure before him.
Smiling, he strode forward into the unknown.
Podcast http://bit.ly/2och5LE Currently debating the Roswell Incident.