Journey out today. Already missing
Familiar sounds of morning bird,
Coffee pot and cat’s purr.
Plane roar and passenger hum
Traffic growl, and elevator whine
Poor substitutes for home comforts.
Vacation it is called and so very
Right. We vacate familiar, cozy,
Safe for sterner far flung climes.
Marco Polo or Bourdain, I’ll never be.
I travel with duress, distress, little rest.
Soaring with the pigeon for my lost roost.
Ah, but the return is sweet, home
Waits quiet and empty for the weary,
Recovering from the rigors of R and R.
( Many thanks for all the encouraging comments, to those who work so hard
to make this happen and the community of writers who share with all of us the fruits of their creativity and dedication to this art.)
This nugget of a feeling
Lodged around the chest cavity
Feels kind of like light angina
It’s not like Thanksgiving grief
Where I’d need a nap
After eating for hours
Although I do grieve over my gluttony
Every November
Tonight
It was the easy shift into older grief
That once was raw and claustrophobic
This feeling of loss that I’m uneasily familiar with
Where we can shift our conversation from refried beans
To when I’m finally going to go through
The stuff of my mom’s
That I couldn’t let go of
But I still can’t seem to face
That tiny bit of unpacked rawness that just sits
In our garage
It’s easy to look over now
It’s become part of my daily scenery
I think what’s scary
Is when I finally unpack it
Will I feel empty or
Will I feel free?
