Home Again

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A grey squirrel sits where the tree house was.

Broken slats nailed to the bark hang loose as if now

even the tree allowed no girls to ascend.


Going back requires hope and defies

longing, is never a return to what was

but to what is now not. 

Memory bends and stretches, shapes

a new creation: the loves lovelier,

the hurts harsher.


The lattice under the porch

where that damn woodchuck lived

with her yearly crop of babies is gone,


the hours inside the house are gone,

but the door is still there, blown open,

and the green shutters still cling,


though most of the windows are broken.

Stories told and retold over time,

each slightly different, each absolutely true.


The grass my father never mowed. How

the boyfriend who became my husband who became

my ex-husband who became the father of a child


he never wanted with me—fertilized

the front yard and planted ivy so my father

would not have to mow. Who knew


the ivy's long locks would choke the wall,

destroy the mortar? How each turn of my life

became a new road without my ever seeing

its one-way sign. 

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May you begin a new day
 

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Tuesday, 11 February 2025