A Home as an Open Dream

I always tell myself

I will come back unburdened,

I will keep the load of the world

outside, before I open the door.

I will let the smells inside remind me

that a home embraces without questions,

as she smiles at me without getting up -

"Wash up, dinner's ready."

We would talk of the day to make

the outside world our own,

and lay joint claim

to our individual memories.

We would listen, agree, disagree,

give small hurts, take little bruises,

laugh at, laugh with.

I would let what I wear on my body and face

to fall softly on the floor,

I would be myself,

sometimes good, often ugly,

and I will see love loosen its grip

but not letting go.

A home then is a promise,

to be the port and the sail,

to assimilate storms such

that clenched fists loosen

and we sleep with open dreams.

A home is of so many definitions. The place we grow in, the place we get our first intimations of the living world, the place we are desperate to get to at the end of a day - but also the place we are desperate to leave as we grow.

Often a shelter, often a prison, often just a roof, often the very symbol of unquestioning acceptance. We learn the meaning of bruises from those in the next room,  and the illimitable depth of love from those further down the hall. We learn there is often no difference between the command of an elder and the confines of an ego. We learn of chains of command and of the subtle exertion of real power.

We learn how some of the hardest decisions come from the softest heart, and male prerogative is often just a cover for cluelessness. We leave home for pilgrimages, when actually we are in search of a home. 

Home is deep nights and late escapes. Home is often of going away without looking back. And to die in peace often only means to have  found that address which we can finally call home - and to have that address find us.

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Hear the poem!

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