Return home
even if the passage of time
and grief
and wildfire
make homecoming something to fear
even when driving the neglected dirt road
with its intentional, unyielding rocks
and treacherous ruts
leads you to ghosts
even when arrival is no longer heralded
by the tallest tree guiding your eyes leftward
toward the most comforting architectural shape
your heart has known
even though the charred trees and ash-covered dirt
mute the sagey-fresh-earth-mixed-with-ponderosa smell
and disorient you
bare, red earth now where the cabin once stood everything gone every log, every bit of mud chinking the metal roof and awning even the loft’s diamond-shaped window and the shutters protecting the main room’s windows set low to the floor so toddler-sized you and your parents could gaze across the meadow upon that constant blue peak presiding over you all Return home even though your larger-than-life, invincible father has recently left this world and won’t be coming down the steps to greet you or lighting a fire in the stove or reading bedtime stories aloud by the light of kerosene lamps even though your dad has gone to the place your mother went forty-eight years ago and no longer needs the cabin’s shelter but still inhabits the space just as your mother has since you were five making this place heart-wrenching, unbearable and deeply soothing Return home to the small tree with the sloped trunk just where you left it after your last pretend horse ride and don’t look away— even though not a single green needle remains its vanished saddle nothing more than soot
your heart knows it has joined your mom and dad
eschewing its physical form
and returning to
the ether
in this way, your first best friend is always with you
as your parents are
accompanying you
illuminating the courage
you forget you have
Return home
to study the ground as you did when you were six
noticing each new flower shyly peeking
from its spring green foliage
each new bloom becoming your favorite
first the straightforward pinky-purple
then the impossibly tiny white ones
their leafless stems almost needle-like
blooming in bursty bunches
as if red ants are lighting fireworks
Return home
even though your aging body
no longer finds physical comfort
sitting on rocks
the size of coffee tables
that once held you for hours
their weathered, sun-warmed surfaces transformed
into elaborate houses for miniature people
sustaining a world where you had control over everythingIt has been almost two years since I wrote this poem, three since the Hermit’s Peak/Calf Canyon fire swallowed our family cabin and burned 341,471 acres in what will always be my homeland.
This is the poem that initiated my memoir-writing. The whispers to return to the physical and emotional landscape of my childhood have grown louder and more insistent, and—as I have shared here before—my definition of home continues to bloom.
Invitation
What do you remember about your childhood home(s)? Have you gone there as an adult? If so, what effect did returning home have on you?
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Beautiful.. but it's these lines:
as your parents are
accompanying you
illuminating the courage
you forget you have
I needed those lines today. Thank you.
I loved your poem the first time you shared it with me…I love it even more now ❤️