Friday, July 29, 2016

On Moving Out Of Our Home

Hollowed out vacant home
echoing laughter and more, the floor
where she took her first steps,
as if I would remember them;
we can’t keep the things
we think we will. Instead,
the past bubbles
in fits and starts and her
bobbing
weaving head
as she crawled across that floor
stops my throat cold.

Sniffling in a Starbucks down the street,
sun beating on me through a window,
sweating like I’m working – instead,
I write a poem trying
to capture leaving.

Feeling
too much and too little,
I walk the streets alone,
bowed down and bent but yet,
a snippet of a song
snaking through my synapses.

Crazy, this.
Holding my home
in my heart like some wanderer;
wherever you go, there you are.
The denouement of a chapter,
twelve years here –
a breakup, a marriage,
two breakdowns,
a precious child,
law school and the rest. Too much
and too little.

What is home? Where
is home? Home is where
the heart is, near or far away…
another snippet to follow my footsteps –
let me die there.

And my four-year-old daughter
said goodbye to her room
as to a dear friend, took out-of-frame
pictures to remember this by,
snippets of images
like my own disjointed memories.

It is she that remains,
she and my wife.
And though I wait alone,
I will return to them. This is
just a moment – home,
a lifetime – a moment
and nothing too much
or too little. Only this.