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Home, Not Home

Updated: Jan 2

It's always strange, being home.

Home where I was a child,

where I became a not-child,

where I am not a child anymore.

I sat on this tree as child.

This oblique oak tree.

It was perfect for climbing.

And for kissing.

I sat by this pond as a not-child.

This rock-skipped sky-mirror.

It was perfect for picnics.

And for cake fights.

Today, as a not-child, I sat inside my memories:

My stories and my histories.

This childhood home-not-home

Is still home,

and yet not.

And, somehow, I find that comforting.


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