“Home”
Home—it never was
the roads I traveled, streets I walked, the stores I shopped,
the couch I bought, the room I shared,
the rice I cooked, the dishes washed,
the musty hallways, the chime of doorbells rung,
the morning air, still crisp as I recall—reminders,
the couch I bought, the room I shared,
the rice I cooked, the dishes washed,
the musty hallways, the chime of doorbells rung,
the morning air, still crisp as I recall—reminders,
weak to hold the memories we formed—
the talks we had while half asleep, the nights we prayed for hours long;
the boy for whom I woke in tears, the girl with whom I shared my inmost thoughts;
the times we gathered, twelve or more, for praise, for dinner, for work, for fun.
Now standing here, amidst our emptied home,
I see our home is not a place,
but you and me and us—
a fragile life whose breath is constant love.
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It’s only natural that, at the end of the year, people start feeling nostalgic. Check out how another writer chooses to remember. Or you can return home.
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