What makes home
Home?
It's the people, of course.
And it's the feel of a place,
The smell I can't name,
And the sounds and the air and the taste,
And the way my soul, skittering
So often off track,
Settles in
At home.
Is it any wonder, then,
Why this place feels like home
Even when I clearly don't belong?
Even when I don't look right,
Talk right,
Walk right,
Laugh right,
Eat right?
I am awkward and big and white
And tongue-tied and wide-eyed--
All knees and nose and hips and teeth.
Words in my ears
Mean no more and no less
Than music.
Words off my tongue drop dumb
Like silly broken bricks.
So I am clearly not at home.
But there are people here who know me.
There are people here
Who know my name,
Just like home.
There is a past, a future,
And a precious, precious present,
Just like home.
When I am home (my real home)
My heart hurts and my brain connives
To find my way back here.
When the wheels touch down,
When my feet stand grounded again,
Every time,
Though I know I am
A strange stranger
Who will never really belong,
I am home.
ErinRMS 3/2016
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