Homesick

I thought of home last night in a way I never had
my three years gone.
I saw our family room in a myriad of pictures,
snapshots of time.
The vivid red carpet and wood paneling of my childhood;
all since renovated.

I remembered the wide bay window Mom never re-curtained
and the old dogwood blossoms showing through;
my sister’s favorite now cut down.
Another tree takes center stage
with Dad’s feeders swaying above a birdbath
gathering cardinal, blue jay, and robin.
Those same boughs seem to sprout soft cotton in winter.

I went through each season in my mind,
for I know the view well,
and the years that changed it too.
I recalled the site through the double windows
on the opposite end of the room,
the anticipation of hot pick rose buds from the bush below.
In spring, the tulips grew daily as they’d poke through
along the back patio,
stretching upward to the nearby apple branches.
The roots, shade, and fruit eventually covered too much ground,
and so hammock has been replaced with stepping stones.

My cat used to stretch out atop the sofa,
basking in the sun beneath those windows,
while I watched his fur move with the breeze.
I remember the chill that would come too,
approaching the same time as dinner,
on an autumn night.

Then, as the collage of memory piled,
the deep center of me began to ache.
Right as it did, all that surrounds that inner orb
began to warm.
Peacefulness filled me
and moved toward my lungs,
and I began to deeply breathe in
Home.


all rights reserved, Elizabeth Bohlander Wilson