Home is a different kind of a thing

when you have been at home all over.

When you are not of a place that has always been with you,

a place that knows you almost as well as you know it.

A place where your grandparents and those before them

cried, laughed and loved while stumbling through their lives.

Home is a different kind of a thing

when the trees that you grew up with are far from you

growing old without your knowledge.

Your child memories trapped in your mind and your heart,

not casually revisited every so often by just being there in your adult self.

Home is a different kind of a thing when you do go back

to a place that was once yours. A visitor, half in and half out.

An almost stranger but not. Exclaiming with delight at things

and places, remembered with the sharpness of childhood.

But that’s all OK, because home now is where you are.

New memories joining those from long ago.

New trees growing close to you, tall and solid in the wind.

New tears and love and laughter, new delight at the recently remembered,

as you and yours stumble through your lives. At home.


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