Where there was something and suddenly isn’t … Mother, father, brothers punching each other, full bed with yellow sheets, soft couches, forks & spoons, carpeting, wallpaper, cracking sidewalks, laundry chute, dogs & cats, backyards & bicycles … I go foraging for something to remind me of home.
I turn on a desk lamp, hide cinder blocks with a quilt, lay a scrap of carpet, put slippers on my feet, join a sisterhood club, join a German club, find boys, make air popcorn every single day. But I grow weary of these discomforts.
Empty: I drink, I binge, I cheat on tests. I fail. I vomit. I give it the old college try. I transfer, eat less popcorn, meet a guy with a full-on beard. We sit on couches, watch TV, go to movies. We date, break-up, write letters, break-up, get married.
And suddenly, and actually. There’s something where before there wasn’t. I begin setting-up house. I bring in soft couches, a TV. It’s dusk. I am home.
[first clause taken from Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem, “Burning the Old Year”
and submitted to dVerse Poets]