Home is
the collection of memories
packed into a square mileage
that can only be covered
in Huffy tracks and hiding spaces.
It's a house
where growth
wore away
the door frame
and familiarity
made the floors creak.
It's a street.
Home isn't
what's left of walnut and pecan trees
in the backyard
where you don't play anymore.
It's not
in the 5 ft deep,
public pool
where you learned
that you, too, could fly.
It's not just the block.
Home is that stability
cradling whoever
you wanted to be
in small town living
and even nurturing
your children
into themselves.
Home is also where
I am now
or where I used to live
that brought me
just as much peace
as the streets
that beget my freedom.
Home isn't a place
anymore tangible
than the description
of a dream.
The smells of yesterday
clutter boxes
and move,
city to city,
until they, too, fade
and become
part of our new
home.
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