I remember bits of the movie we watched

when we were all home together
that last college summer:
the boy, the bicycle, the wide-headed creature
with long fingers.

Back at school,
each time I’d catch sight
of my recklessness in a mirror,
I’d mouth “phone home” to the reflection.

We did call home,
for years after that,
from dorms, bus stations,
scattered apartments,
gas stations off interstates:
I am coming Tuesday,
we are almost there,
I have two whole weeks,
can you come get me at six?

But gradually,
our visits became less frequent,
shorter, hurried.

I remember one later year,
the day or two after Christmas,
standing in the rain,
in front of the colored lights
in a hometown window,
no one left in town but me,
thinking of a distant desk by a window,
realizing that I had made my own home,
and there would be my returning.

Copyright Kay Winter


4 thoughts on “Home

  1. yeah when we realize that moment in our life, our how life changes and suddenly we feel like the both the world opens up to us and also it suddenly seems like the world got so much smaller all at once. Thanks for making that writing public Kay, I enjoyed it.


  2. This fading, this drifting that happens in life . . . it is so sad. In place of former “we,” we now turn to ourselves, within ourselves to find our home . . . but is it enough, and does it satisfy in the same way? I think your poem echoes and raises these questions so well. Rather haunting and leaves a melancholy that remains.

    – ep –


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