as I return from my walk to the river.
Just as plaintive piano chords
introduce “Seven,” I see my white
garage door in the distance,
almost glowing as the sun sets
on this cloudy, chilly day.
I am almost home, and the song,
—as usual—causes tears to form,
its heartbreaking artistry forcing me
to recall vividly what home used to be.
I am the child whose house
was haunted—the little girl
who longs for someone to help
her pack her dolls and flee.
The big white door grows closer;
I am almost home, yet my destination
is another haunted house, where ghosts
from a marriage that broke my spirit
float through the pastel walls.
As I approach the gravel pathway,
I wonder, yet again—where is home?
I remove my earphones, unlock the door,
and step into the enveloping warmth
of familiar objects— and I remember
that there are indeed still beautiful things.
Home is what I choose to make it,
home is somewhere inside me--
I know that, yet even now,
I must remind myself:
I am the little girl who survived,
and I am almost home.