There are stories told and retold that become part of one's personal narrative, adding a richness of dimension that narrative would otherwise lack. Jesus's parable of the prodigal son is such a story for me. I've retold it and reflected upon it earlier in Reckonings, some seven years ago, here.
With such stories that have grown within, there comes alertness to their appearance, glancing or direct, in other lives, particularly in the consciousness of others reflected and refined in their art. I imagine the prodigal son returned, awakening the morning after, lying in that numinous time of transition, knowing yet wondering whether he had really come home, imagining what awaits him.
Today I came again upon Rita Dove's poem, "Dawn Revisited," delighted with the prodigal companionship of a son lost and found and the smell of biscuits.
Dawn Revisited
Imagine you wake up
with a second chance: The blue jay
hawks his pretty wares
and the oak still stands, spreading
glorious shade. If you don't look back,
the future never happens.
How good to rise in sunlight,
in the prodigal smell of biscuits -
eggs and sausage on the grill.
The whole sky is yours
to write on, blown open
to a blank page. Come on,
shake a leg! You'll never know
who's down there, frying those eggs,
if you don't get up and see.