But of course, we do - come home, the last post

a chimera of sorts, nothing to do with the Thomas Wolfe sort of moment, we all go home again, and again. But it's a going, not a coming...that may be way too esoteric or just plain thick, but I actually know what I mean (going home v coming home). I had my son home for a night. We made peach jam and spaghetti sauce (which got rather lively in the pressure cooker). I awoke this morning with an ineffable sense of loss, a hollowness that I always get when one of them leaves, or I leave them.

I. The Attic Speaks
this is a sort of meditation on the stuff that grows in my attic, coming and going with the to and fro of my various spawn - god that sounds awful. Anyway:

I am sometimes cautioned: "I may have to take that back with me.
I may need it this winter [spring, summer, fall]."

More often: "Can you put this in the attic for me? I can't take it with me, don't have the room..."

And so their possessions come and go and leave indelible tracks on my heart,
reminding me that they are not here, and that even their vestiges are temporary.

I may change that phrase to "...cast shadows on my heart..." rather than leave , etc.

Whaddya think?

II. Untitled

There lies your suitcase
on the bed in your old room.
So temporary.

There lies your suitcase
on the bed in the blue room.
So temporary.

Basta - I have chicken in the oven and it smells wonderful.