Home

There is a strange homesickness that has no geography.

I have no memory of leaving,

only the ache of being away.

A place absent from every photograph.

Here is the clock.

But where is time?

Here is the song.

But what is music?

Here is my body.

But where is its Life?

Here I am.

But where is Home?

The thing is,

Wonder had no use for proof.

Once upon a time,

a cardboard box was a spaceship.

A stick became a sword.

The moon followed us home.

I never once asked for proof.

Then things began to hurt.

And the sword became a stick again.

Still,

something was playing.

No thought ever returned me there.

Some things need to be felt before they are understood.

And that’s where she found me.

Or perhaps where I found her.

Still playing.

Still climbing trees.

Still waiting for the moon to follow us home.

“There you are,”

she said.

“I’ve been waiting.

I’ve got so much to show you.”

She took my hand.

And the world became larger than its name,

but small enough to be Home.