Home

For dad who says I never write happy poems;

This is for you.

Home is different shades of brown 

Furniture 

And a dining room used only during Christmas 

Home is the way the light bends into the second story family room

pouring light onto the painted portraits on the wall 

Home is my cat coming to sit and stare in my empty room 

As if he knew I was on my way to visit 

Home is finally understanding the appeal of the suburbs

of the peace and quiet— of first good sleep I’ve gotten in months 

Home is where dad opens the door to make sure your sleeping and check in 

Even though I’m 24 and don’t need to be checked on 

I’ve lived in a lot of places 

Prompting my dad to ask 

“Can’t you just stay?” 

And my sister to say 

“Why do you have to live so far away?” 

I don’t have an answer 

And for the first time 

this visit I wasn’t sure 

I would have to strength to leave again

To go back where my face wasn’t on all of the walls 

showing someone loved me at every year 

To go back where my cat didn’t slink around everywhere I went. 

Pretending not to care 

To go back where no body came and opened my door to make sure I was there 

And waited up for me when I wasn’t 

This time I came home and wanted to bury myself in my childhood bed and not come out- to ignore every other part of life that I didn’t know if I could face 

But home is not like that.

It’s comforting

but also honest 

Home is for the first time my dad saying

“baby you have to go back” 

Home is looking at money spread sheets and convincing me to eat more 

Home is gaining the weight back I lost 

Home is getting the permission to care about myself 

That I had been denying. 

Home is the quiet—

but it answers more than the noise