I still go home.
Sometimes I want to go home,
sometimes I have to.
With each passing year,
home becomes more of a thing
and less of a place.
Growing unfamiliarity replaces
expectations with new
observations.
But the hill where I crashed my bike, in front of
Mario’s house, is still there.
His mother dressed my wounds while I cried like a
little boy.
I was a little boy, then.
I still go home.
Most of the time I’ll leave the window open
because the birds are still singing the
same songs they did when I was young.
I still go home to my mother, to my father.
The sentimental pit in my stomach
that is there when I’m away, is inevitably
overshadowed by the duties of a son
when I’m present.
I still go home, and I am present.
The trees can tell.
Eventually that pit will be permanent.
That’s why the birds’ song is
so important.
Because sometimes I’ll want to go home, and
sometimes I’ll have to.
And, with each passing year,
as the trees, while serenaded,
watch us disappear.
And as place and time
become more and more unclear,
I’ll still go home.
(2016)