Going home isn’t always easy but it is always a learning experience. Not those lessons of childhood, the more sorrowful realizations of adulthood. Time has passed, there is less sand in the glass and there is no reset. Lesson learned. I’ll be traveling more frequently. As Dorothy said, “There’s no place like home.”
: recall to mind of a long-forgotten experience or fact
: a remembered experience
Sitting, visiting, sleepless in my childhood room,
it’s only my parent’s house now, no longer home.
I haven’t lived here in so long, lives grown and parted;
regardless, I feel lightly tethered by frail memories.
Behind a bit of carpet in the little closet
that once was mine, and deep in that secret place,
I’d hidden bits of a past that touched and strained my mind.
Yet, even after they remodeled, my tiny ghosts remain.
Those pale apparitions, I visit with them in the night,
I remember the good and gentle times and the screaming fights.
My closet was a refuge, a place to wish away , hold my bear
and whisper the words of old time hymns to calm my fears.
Images flicker through my mind, of people passed on from this life,
the scent of cinnamon, Ajax dish soap, starched and stiff khaki material.
A little red truck, stick shift and all, chasing roadrunners through desert sand,
bouncing along my memories, bringing a warm and a lingering calm.
I try not to blame or malign the people and practices of the past,
I inadvertently created apparitions in my kid’s lives now, too.
I moved along mentally, spiritually, emotionally far into my own.
The mark of true adulthood; just visiting old home and then gone.