Home Is Where The Heart Is

We hired a greeting comity here long ago.
They stand at the top of the stairs when you walk in.
Their eyes ask how you've been, sniff your dirty knees.
Your adventure is pungent, and your eyes become transparent from the day of hiding.
Their tails wag as you walk past and set down the keys.
I felt the world melt apart in these next few steps for some 20 odd years.
The red door painted in grief.

All forgotten now, all past.
All the faces full of love.
All the cakes baked for birthdays and streamers of orange and black.
All the walls tacked with holes and laced with whispers.
All the countless nights.
All the furniture pulling itself over time into worn holes.

My sister and I would hear the zap of electronics being plugged in followed by a deafening Jimi Hendrix. We would wait for a big blue van to pull up and in the over packed driveway and honk. In a haste we gathered our books and cram in the small door, laughing and smiling. Our friends already welcomed and waiting impatiently for our arrival. A camcorder unsteadily placed in any one of our hands, we'd perfectly plan our escape. Everything uneventful and nonchalant filled video tape after video tape.

The trees grew with us and upheld our wild spirits. We never knew why we were here until we grew old with experiences and romance. Our veins comforting our aching hearts. Our friends were our family, and shoes didn't exist. It all runs through my head when the dogs wag their tails and comfort you endlessly with licks on the ankles.

Suddenly it makes sense, that home is where the heart is.


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