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.